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THE  MODERN  STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 


EDITED   BY 

WILL  D.  HOWE 

FBOFESSOB   OF    ENGLISH   AT   INDIANA.    UNIVEBSITT 


THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 


THE  MODERN 
STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 

EACH  VOLUME  EDITED  BY  A  LEADING 
AMERICAN  AUTHORITY 

This  series  is  composed  of  such  works  as 
are  conspicuous  in  the  province  of  literature 
for  their  enduring  influence.  Every  volume 
is  recognized  as  essential  to  a  liberal  edu- 
cation'and  will  tend  to  infuse  a  love  for  true 
literature  and  an  appreciation  of  the  quali- 
ties which  cause  it  to  endure. 

A  descriptive  list  of  the  volumes  published  in 

this  series  appears  in  the  last  pages 

of  this  volume 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


THE  MODERN  STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 


THE    ORDEAL 

OF 

RICHARD    FEVEREL 

A  HISTORY  OF  A  FATHER  AND  SON 

BY 

GEORGE   MEREDITH 

EDITED     WITH     AN     INTRODUCTION 

BY 

FRANK  W.   CHANDLER 

PROFESSOR   OF   ENGLISH    AND   COMPARATIVE   LITERATURE   AND   DEAN  OF   THE 
COLLEGE   OF   LIBERAL   ARTS   AT   THE  UNIVERSITY    OF   CINCINNATI 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

NEW   YORK  CHICAGO  BOSTON 


Copyright,  1896,  1917,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.      THE    INMATES    OF    RAYNHAM    ABBEY      ....  1 

II.      SHOWING  HOW  THE   FATES  SELECTED   THE   FOUR- 
TEENTH  BIRTHDAY  TO   TRY  THE   STRENGTH   OF 

THE    SYSTEM 9 

III.  THE    MAGIAN    CONFLICT 16 

IV.  ARSON 21 

V.      ADRIAN    PLIES   HIS   HOOK 30 

VI.      JUVENILE   STRATAGEMS 35 

vii.     daphne's  bower 42 

Till.      THE    BITTER   CUP 47 

IX.      A   FINE   DISTINCTION 55 

X.      RICHARD  PASSES  THROUGH  HIS  PRELIMINARY  OR- 
DEAL, AND  IS  THE  OCCASION  OF  AN  APHORISM   .  60 

XI.      IN  WHICH  THE  LAST  ACT  OF  THE  BAKEWELL  COM- 
EDY   IS    CLOSED    IN   A   LETTER 67 

XII.      THE    BLOSSOMING   SEASON 72 

XIII.  THE    MAGNETIC    AGE 83 

XIV.  AN   ATTRACTION 92 

XV.      FERDINAND   AND    MIRANDA 97 

XVI.      UNMASKING   OF   MASTER   RIPTON   THOMPSON    .        .  106 

XVII.      GOOD   WINE   AND    GOOD    BLOOD 115 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PiflS 

XVIII.      THE     SYSTEM     ENCOUNTERS     THE     WILD     OATS 

SPECIAL    PLEA 120 

XIX.      A  DIVERSION   PLAYED  ON  A  PENNY  WHISTLE    .  124 

XX.       CELEBRATES  THE  TIME-HONOURED  TREATMENT 

OF   A   DRAGON    BY    THE    HERO          .        .        .        .  127 

XXI.       RICHARD    IS   SUMMONED   TO   TOWN   TO    HEAR   A 

SERMON 145 

XXII.       INDICATES   THE    APPROACHES    OF    FEVER      .        .  153 

XXIII.  CRISIS   IN    THE    APPLE-DISEASE            ....  163 

XXIV.  OF  THE  SPRING  PRIMROSE  AND  THE  AUTUMNAL  175 

XXV.       IN   WHICH    THE    HERO    TAKES   A    STEP     .        .        .  180 

XXVI.       RECORDS    THE    RAPID    DEVELOPMENT    OF    THE 

HERO 199 

XXVII.       CONTAINS  AN  INTERCESSION  FOR  THE  HEROINE  213 

XXVIII.      RELATES     HOW      PREPARATIONS     FOR     ACTION 
WERE     CONDUCTED     UNDER     THE     APRIL     OF 

LOVERS 216 

WIX.       IN    WHICH     THE     LAST    ACT    OF     THE     COMEDY 

TAKES   THE    PLACE    OF   THE    FIRST       .        .        .  233 

XXX.       CELEBRATES   THE    BREAKFAST 246 

XXXI.      THE    PHILOSOPHER   APPEARS    IN    PERSON      .        .  255 

XXXn.       PROCESSION    OF   THE    CAKE 262 

XXXIII.  NURSING    THE    DEVIL 279 

XXXIV.  CONQUEST   OF   AN   EPICURE 290 

xxxv.     clare's  marriage 310 

XXXVI.      A    DINNER-PARTY    AT   RICHMOND         ....  325 

XXXVII.       MRS.    BERRY    ON    MATRIMONY 341 


CONTENTS  vii 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

xxxviii.     an  enchantress 352 

xxxix.     the  little  bird  and  the  falcon:  a  berry 

to  the  rescue  ! 376 

xl.     clare's  diary 392 

xli.    austin  returns 409 

xlii.    nature  speaks 420 

xliii.    again  the  magian  conflict       ....  429 

xliv.    the  last  scene 437 

xlv.     lady  blandish  to  austin  wentworth      .  454 


INTRODUCTION 


Among  the  Victorian  novelists,  George  Meredith  occupies 
a  place  apart.  Unlike  Dickens,  Thackeray,  and  Eliot,  he 
appeals  to  a  select  few.  Those  who  appreciate  him  are  folk 
of  his  own  temper — cultivated,  intellectual,  urbane.  They 
are  persons  of  taste  and  discernment.  They  are  generally 
the  middle-aged  rather  than  the  young.  They  are  those 
who,  aloof  and  contemplative,  relish  the  comedy  of  life, 
rather  than  those  who  throw  themselves  whole-heartedly  into 
the  game.  It  is  not  to  be  marvelled  at,  therefore,  that  Mere- 
dith should  have  won  his  way  slowly,  or  that  recognition, 
when  it  came,  should  have  rendered  his  position  unique  and 
secure. 

Meredith's  career  as  a  writer  of  prose  was  opened,  in  1856, 
with  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat,  an  experiment  in  fantastic  Ori- 
ental romance.  In  the  following  year,  he  exploited  German 
romance  less  successfully  in  Farina,  a  Legend  of  Cologne. 
Having  thus  trained  his  'prentice  hand,  he  passed  to  mastery 
of  his  craft  in  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel,  published  in 
1859.  This  was  his  first  modern  novel,  and  probably  his 
best.  It  showed  him,  not  only  expert  in  the  use  of  language 
and  original  in  literary  technic,  but  distinguished,  also,  as  an 
observer  of  the  world  and  an  analyst  of  character.  The 
psychological  novel  of  George  Eliot,  just  emerging,  found 
here  a  rival  even  more  subtle.  Adam  Bede,  a  twin-birth 
with  Feverel,  although  detailed  in  its  exploration  of  motive 
and  feeling,  demanded  less  mental  effort  on  the  part  of  its 

ix 


x  INTRODUCTION 

readers;  it  accordingly  attracted  much  greater  attention. 
Whereas  it  was  often  reprinted,  no  second  edition  of  Feverel 
came  from  the  press  for  nearly  two  decades. 

In  the  meantime,  Meredith  had  continued  his  course  un- 
deterred by  lack  of  popular  approval,  writing  six  other 
novels  before  the  appearance,  in  1879,  of  The  Egoist — most 
characteristic  of  all.  Two  novels  in  particular  reflected  his 
experience  of  Italy,  gained  while  acting  there  as  war  cor- 
respondent in  1866.  The  first  was  Emilia  in  England  (1864), 
later  rechristened  Sandra  Belloni.  The  second  was  its  se- 
quel Vittoria  (1867).  The  other  works  of  the  period  com- 
prise the  semi-farcical  Evan  Harrington  (1861);  the  serious 
Rhoda  Fleming  (1865) ;  the  clever  Harry  Richmond  (1870-71) ; 
and  Meredith's  favorite — Beauchamp's  Career  (1874-75). 
It  is  The  Egoist,  however,  that  most  completely  illustrates 
its  author's  conception  of  the  novel  of  types.  In  this  work, 
with  rare  skill  and  comic  elan,  if  with  a  persistency  a  little 
wearisome,  he  lays  bare  the  secrets  of  a  heart  and  intellect 
thoroughly  self-centered,  proceeding  so  obviously  from  the 
desire  to  make  out  a  case  that  he  is  likely  to  displease  those 
who  value  story,  yet  satisfying  those  who  enjoy  brilliant 
comment  on  character  and  a  study  of  its  intricacies. 

In  his  later  novels,  Meredith  never  forgot  the  typical  in 
attending  to  the  particular,  even  though  The  Tragic  Come- 
dians (1880)  reflected  incidents  in  the  life  of  the  socialist 
leader  Lassalle,  and  Diana  of  the  Crossways  (1885)  certain 
traits  of  Sheridan's  granddaughter,  Mrs.  Norton.  One  of 
Our  Conquerors  (1891),  Lord  Ormont  and  his  Aminta  (1894), 
and  The  Amazing  Marriage  (1895)  bring  to  a  close  the  cata- 
logue of  Meredith's  fiction,  except  for  the  unfinished  Celt  and 
Saxon  published  after  his  death. 

Of  Meredith  as  a  poet  this  is  not  the  place  to  speak.  Suf- 
fice it  to  say  that  he  did  his  first  writing  in  verse,  issuing  a 
volume  when  twenty-three,  and  several  others  later  in  life, 
the  best  known  being  his  sequence  of  irregular  sonnets  en- 


INTRODUCTION 


XI 


titled  Modern  Love  (1867).  His  poetry,  like  his  prose,  is 
rich  in  content  but  difficult  at  times  by  reason  of  its  crabbed 
and  meticulous  expression — a  trait  due  to  no  obscurity  of 
thought  or  lack  of  feeling,  but  rather  to  the  desire  to  com- 
press much  meaning  within  a  cryptic  phrase.  As  a  play- 
wright, Meredith  attempted  comedy  in  The  Sentimentalists, 
which  was  acted  posthumously.  As  an  essayist,  he  fathered 
a  memorable  discussion  of  the  comic  spirit  and  its  uses,  made 
concrete  in  his  novels. 

Meredith's  life  was  comparatively  uneventful.  He  was 
born  in  1828  at  Portsmouth,  the  son  of  a  naval  outfitter. 
Early  left  an  orphan,  he  was  educated  in  Germany,  and,  re- 
turning to  England,  studied  law,  experimented  in  journalism, 
and  fell  in  with  a  group  of  intellectuals  led  by  Frederic  Har- 
rison and  John  Morley.  He  became  literary  adviser  to  the 
publishers  Chapman  and  Hall;  he  edited  for  a  short  period 
The  Fortnightly  Review,  and  served  abroad  as  correspondent 
for  The  Morning  Post.  But  most  of  his  maturity  was  passed 
in  rural  retirement  in  Surrey.  He  was  twice  married,  at 
first  unhappily  to  a  daughter  of  the  novelist,  Thomas  Love 
Peacock,  and  then  more  fortunately  to  a  Miss  Vulliamy,  who 
bore  him  two  children.  His  fame  grew  very  slowly.  Not 
until  the  age  of  sixty  was  he  recognized  as  among  the  chief 
English  novelists.  But  at  the  time  of  his  death,  in  1909,  he 
was  admittedly  the  foremost  man  of  letters  in  Great  Britain. 

II 

Meredith  is  first  and  last  an  intellectualist.  Hence  his 
preference  for  the  psychological  novel,  for  the  novel  of  types, 
for  the  novel  that  is  half  essay,  for  the  novel  of  distinctive 
style.  Hence,  also,  his  conception  of  the  importance  for 
the  novelist  of  comedy  and  the  comic  spirit.  Comedy,  ac- 
cording to  Meredith,  is  embodied  mind,  and  its  function  is 
to  expose  violations  of  rational  law.     It  is  common  sense 


xii  [NTRODUCTION 

chastising  with  the  laughter  of  reason  aberrations  from  the 
sensible.  Comedy  measures  individual  shortcomings  by  the 
social  norm.  It  results  from  "the  broad  Alpine  survey  of 
the  spirit  born  of  our  united  social  intelligence."  It  is  "a 
nunc  played  to  throw  reflections  upon  social  life,  and  it  deals 
with  human  nature  in  the  drawing-room  of  civilized  men  and 
women,  where  we  have  no  dust  of  the  struggling  outer  world, 
no  mire,  no  violent  crashes,  to  make  the  correctness  of  the 
representation  convincing."  Comedy  is  thus  refined  rather 
than  Rabelaisian;  it  is  impartial  rather  than  sentimental. 
It  relies  upon  creating  ideal  figures  that  epitomize  mankind 
in  certain  follies.  It  is  typical  and  general  in  character, 
whereas  tragedy  is  concerned  primarily  with  the  individual. 

"The  comic  spirit  conceives  a  definite  situation  for  a  num- 
ber of  characters,  and  rejects  all  accessories  in  the  exclusive 
pursuit  of  them  and  their  speech."  On  the  stage,  the  great 
master  of  such  comedy  is  Moliere,  and  in  the  novel,  we  might 
add,  Meredith.  Meredith's  confession  of  faith  in  the  efficacy 
of  the  comic  spirit  is  given  in  the  prelude  to  The  Egoist,  and 
in  these  words  of  his  famous  Essay:  "  If  you  believe  that  our 
civilization  is  founded  in  common-sense,  you  will,  when  con- 
templating men,  discern  a  Spirit  overhead.  ...  It  has  the 
sage's  brows,  and  the  sunny  malice  of  a  faun  lurks  at  the 
corners  of  the  half-closed  lips.  ...  Its  common  aspect  is 
one  of  unsolicitous  observation.  .  .  .  Men's  future  upon 
earth  does  not  attract  it;  their  honesty  and  shapeliness  in 
the  present  does;  and  whenever  they  wax  out  of  proportion, 
overblown  .  .  .  ;  whenever  they  offend  sound  reason,  fair 
justice;  are  false  in  humility  or  mined  with  conceit,  .  .  .  the 
Spirit  overhead  will  look  humanly  malign  and  cast  an  oblique 
light  on  them,  followed  by  volleys  of  silvery  laughter.  That 
is  the  Comic  Spirit." 

Unquestionably  it  is  by  the  aid  of  this  spirit  that  Mere- 
dith writes  his  novels,  even  including  such  a  tragedy  from 
the  victim's  point  of  view  as  Richard  Fevercl.     For  Mere- 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

dith  is  theoretic  or  nothing.  Conceiving  of  a  folly  to  be  dis- 
played and  made  ridiculous,  he  invents  persons  and  situa- 
tions best  to  accomplish  his  purpose.  He  is,  therefore,  no 
mere  realist  examining  the  confused  detail  of  actual  life  "by 
the  watchmaker's  eye  in  luminous  rings  eruptive  of  the  in- 
finitesimal." He  is  rather  an  idealist,  who  holds  it  to  be 
the  business  of  art  to  render  life  in  quintessence.  The  artist 
must  both  simplify  and  elaborate.  First,  he  must  simplify 
experience  into  typical  deeds  and  persons,  eliminating  from 
his  scheme  the  merely  accidental  and  particular.  Second, 
he  must  elaborate  his  simplification,  presenting  it  through 
representative  concrete  instances  that  it  may  lose  the  aspect 
of  an  abstract  formula  and  acquire  emotional  significance. 
Meredith  is  thus  an  intellectualist  engaged  in  playing  ...  game 
of  literary  chess.  He  has  made  the  pattern  on  his  board 
and  designed  the  pieces,  and  he  moves  them  according  to 
a  pre-arranged  plan.  Just  as  his  Sir  Austin  seeks  to  enact 
the  role  of  Providence  in  determining  the  career  of  Richard 
Feverel,  so  Meredith  plays  Providence  to  his  personages, 
and,  more  than  most  novelists,  he  visibly  controls  their  fate. 

Since  Meredith's  folk  are  etherealized  specimens  of  hu- 
manity set  and  kept  in  motion  by  their  creator,  it  is  his  atti- 
tude toward  them  that  interests  us  quite  as  much  as  their 
actions.  Meredith's  attitude  is  determined  by  his  comic 
outlook  upon  life.  Unswayed  by  the  petty  prejudices  of 
his  people,  he  surveys  them  with  Olympian  serenity,  aware 
of  a  hundred  impulses  and  errors  in  their  conduct  that  will 
lead  to  conclusions  undreamt  of  by  themselves  but  clearly 
foreseen  by  the  novelist  and  his  readers.  From  a  rarer  at- 
mosphere than  that  in  which  his  people  move,  Meredith 
looks  down  upon  their  whimsies  and  their  deeds  with  a 
smile  of  calm  omniscience. 

Moreover,  he  separates  himself  from  them  by  a  wall  of 
clever  comment,  sometimes  sparkling  and  ironical,  some- 
times soberly  extended  to  the  proportions  of  an  essay.     In- 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

deed,  his  novels  are  sometimes  one-third  narrative  and  two- 
thirds  essay,  with  the  dissertational  manner  infecting  the 
narrative  parts  incurably.  No  one,  I  suppose,  would  con- 
tinue reading  The  Egoist  merely  from  interest  in  its  plot. 
To  enjoy  it  one  must  relish  inspecting  at  leisure  the  artificial 
attitudes  of  artificial  people  and  listening,  not  merely  to  their 
smart  chatter,  but  to  the  smarter  discourse  of  the  master  of 
the  puppets,  who,  while  making  them  dance,  lectures  for  the 
edification  of  the  elect.  Thus  Meredith,  having  shown  his 
hero  touched  by  jealousy,  lapses  into  a  little  essay  on  the 
theme.  "Remember  the  poets  upon  Jealousy,"  he  writes. 
"It  is  to  be  haunted  in  the  heaven  of  two  by  a  Third;  pre- 
ceded or  succeeded,  therefore  surrounded,  embraced,  hugged 
by  this  infernal  Third;  it  is  love's  bed  of  burning  marl;  to 
see  and  taste  the  withering  Third  in  the  bosom  of  sweetness; 
to  be  dragged  through  the  past  and  find  the  fair  Eden  of  it 
sulphurous;  to  be  dragged  to  the  gates  of  the  future  and 
glory  to  behold  them  blood;  to  adore  the  bitter  creature 
trebly  and  with  treble  power  to  clutch  her  by  the  windpipe; 
it  is  to  be  cheated,  derided,  shamed,  and  abject  and  suppli- 
cating, and  consciously  demoniacal  in  treacherousness,  and 
victoriously  self-justified  in  revenge."  Needless  to  say,  gen- 
eralizations of  this  sort,  intruding  upon  the  narrative  at 
every  turn,  choke  its  progress  and  prove  distracting. 

Almost  equally  distracting  is  Meredith's  predilection  for 
resorting  to  the  methods  of  comedy  while  writing  fiction. 
As  W.  C.  Brownell  has  put  it:  "The  necessities  of  comedy, 
the  irruption  of  new  characters,  their  disappearance  after 
they  have  done  their  turn,  expectation  balked  by  shifting 
situations,  the  frequent  postponement  of  the  denouement 
when  it  particularly  impends,  and  the  alleviation  of  impa- 
tience by  a  succession  of  subordinate  climaxes — all  the  ma- 
chinery of  the  stage,  in  fact — impair  the  narrative." 


INTRODUCTION 


III 


xv 


But  if  the  tricks  of  the  essayist  and  the  playwright  are 
freely  borrowed  by  Meredith,  sometimes  to  his  disadvan- 
tage and  to  ours,  they  are  nevertheless  in  a  measure  appro- 
priate to  the  kind  of  fiction  he  affects.  For  Meredith  is  a 
psychological  novelist.  He  is  bent  upon  displaying  the  in- 
ward process  of  the  mind.  As  Richard  Le  Galliene  has  said 
of  him:  "The  passion  of  his  genius  is  .  .  .  the  tracing  of  the 
elemental  in  the  complex;  the  registration  of  the  infinitesi- 
mal vibrations  of  first  causes,  the  tracking  in  human  life 
of  the  shadowiest  trail  of  primal  instinct,  the  hairbreadth 
measurement  of  subtle  psychological  tangents:  and  the  em- 
bodiment of  these  results  in  artistic  form."  Meredith,  in 
Richard  Feverel,  declares  that  for  the  novel  "An  audience 
will  come  to  whom  it  will  be  given  to  see  the  elementary 
machinery  at  work.  .  .  .  To  them  nothing  will  be  trivial. 
.  .  .  They  will  see  the  links  of  things  as  they  pass,  and 
wonder  not,  as  foolish  people  now  do,  that  this  great  matter 
came  out  of  that  small  one."  Certainly  Meredith's  efforts 
have  tended  to  realize  that  time.  But  the  psychology  of 
his  characters  is  general  rather  than  individual.  You  are 
conscious  that  these  minds  are  typical,  or  even  symbolic. 
They  belong  to  an  imaginary  and  rational  world  treated 
as  though  it  were  real. 

An  incidental  passage  in  Beauchamp's  Career  shows  that 
Meredith  has  understood  both  his  limitations  and  his  pecu- 
liar ability.  "My  way,"  he  writes,  "is  like  a  Rhone  island 
in  the  summer  drought,  stony,  unattractive,  and  difficult 
between  the  two  forceful  streams  of  the  unreal  and  the  over- 
real  which  delight  mankind — honour  to  the  conjurors!  My 
people  conquer  nothing,  win  none !  they  are  actual  yet  un- 
common. It  is  the  clockwork  of  the  brain  that  they  are  di- 
rected to  set  in  motion,  and — poor  troop  of  actors  to  vacant 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

benches ! — the  conscience  residing  in  thoughtfulness  which 
they  would  appeal  to;  and  if  you  are  there  impervious  to 
them  we  are  lost." 

In  Meredith's  novels,  which  indeed  reveal  in  operation 
"the  clockwork  of  the  brain,"  the  author  has  taken  care  still 
further  to  intellectualize  his  appeal  by  means  of  his  style. 
His  technic  holds  attention;  he  is  an  artificer  of  style,  and, 
as  such,  he  writes  a  style  of  artifice.  He  seeks  to  express 
himself  with  novelty  and  distinction.  If  a  boy  runs,  Mere- 
dith speaks  of  him  as  being  seen  to  bound  "and  taking  a 
lift  of  arms,  fly  aloft,  clapping  heels."  If  a  woman  runs, 
Meredith  writes:  "She  was  fleet;  she  ran  as  though  a  hun- 
dred little  feet  were  bearing  her  onward  smooth  as  water 
over  the  lawn  and  the  sweeps  of  grass  of  the  park,  so  swiftly 
did  the  hidden  pair  multiply  one  another  to  speed  her.  .  .  . 
Suddenly  her  flight  wound  to  an  end  in  a  dozen  twittering 
steps,  and  she  sank."  If  a  heroine  of  eighteen  would  take 
leave  of  her  admirer,  she  says:  "We  have  met.  It  is  more 
than  I  have  merited.  We  part.  In  mercy  let  it  be  forever. 
Oh,  terrible  word !  Coined  by  the  passions  of  our  youth, 
it  comes  to  us  for  our  sole  riches  when  we  are  bankrupt  of 
earthly  treasures,  and  is  the  passport  given  by  Abnegation 
unto  Woe  that  prays  to  quit  this  probationary  sphere." 

Fancy  any  human  being — least  of  all  a  girl — discoursing 
thus  !  But,  no  matter  how  simple  a  thought  or  action,  Mere- 
dith sends  it  forth  arrayed  in  finer  gear  than  Solomon  in  all 
his  glory.  It  is  beribboned  with  metaphor  and  personifica- 
tion; it  is  beflounced  with  epigram  and  allegory.  It  is  truth 
rendered  more  precious,  as  the  medieval  critics  advised, 
by  being  wrapped  in  sayings  not  to  be  lightly  understood 
by  the  vulgar.  So,  when  a  lover  admires  the  chasteness  of 
his  lady,  Meredith  remarks:  "He  saw  the  Goddess  Modesty 
guarding  Purity ;  and  one  would  be  bold  to  say  that  he  did  not 
hear  the  precepts,  Purity's  aged  grannams  maternal  and  pa- 
ternal, cawing  approval  of  her  over  their  munching  gums." 


INTRODUCTION  xiri 

But  Meredith's  gift  of  phrase  and  his  knack  of  knocking 
out  epigrams,  and  his  mastery  over  metaphor  and  lyrical 
description  cannot  be  too  highly  commended.  Diana  is 
"wind-blown  but  ascending."  When  Redworth  sees  her 
kindhng  a  fire,  "a  little  mouse  of  a  thought  scampered  out 
of  one  of  the  chambers  of  his  head  and  darted  along  the  pas- 
sages, fetching  a  sweat  to  his  brows."  After  Sandra's  sing- 
ing, the  stillness  settled  back  again  "like  one  folding  up  a 
precious  jewel."  A  dull  professor  "pores  over  a  little  in- 
exactitude in  phrases  and  pecks  at  it  like  a  domestic  fowl." 
Of  one  who  has  ceased  to  love  we  hear  that  "the  passion  in 
her  was  like  a  place  of  waves  evaporated  to  a  crust  of  salt." 
Of  a  lady's  letter  we  learn  that  it  "flourished  with  light 
strokes  all  over,  like  a  field  of  the  bearded  barley."  Of  a 
heroine  we  are  told  that:  "She  was  not  of  the  creatures  who 
are  excited  by  an  atmosphere  of  excitement;  she  took  it 
as  the  nymph  of  the  stream  her  native  wave,  and  swam  on 
the  flood  with  expansive  languor,  happy  to  have  the  master 
passions  about  her;  one  or  two  of  which  her  dainty  hand 
caressed  fearless  of  a  sting;  the  lady  patted  them  as  her 
swans."  There  is  brilliant  illumination  in  such  compari- 
sons, a  fight  shed  instantaneously  upon  traits  and  mental 
experiences  otherwise  not  to  be  revealed.  When  the  Egoist 
would  affectionately  approach  his  shrinking  Clara,  nothing 
could  better  deliver  the  situation  than  Meredith's  simile: 
"The  gulf  of  a  caress  hove  in  view  like  an  enormous  billow 
hollowing  under  the  curled  ridge.  She  stooped  to  a  butter- 
cup;  the  monster  swept  by." 

It  is  felicity  in  the  use  of  rhetorical  figure  that  enables 
Meredith  to  characterize  the  style  of  a  Carlyle  as,  "resem- 
bling either  early  architecture  or  utter  dilapidation,  so  loose 
and  rough  it  seemed;  a  wind-in-the-orchard  style,  that  tum- 
bled down  here  and  there  an  appreciable  fruit  with  un- 
couth bluster;  sentences  without  commencement  running 
to  abrupt  endings  and  smoke,  like  waves  against  a  sea  wall, 


win  INTRODUCTION 

learned  dictionary  words  giving  a  hand  to  street  slang,  and 
accents  falling  on  them  haphazard,  like  slant  rays  from  driv- 
ing clouds;  all  the  pages  in  a  breeze,  the  whole  book  pro- 
ducing a  kind  of  electrical  agitation  in  the  mind  and  the 
joints."  It  is  Meredith's  gift  for  phrase  that  enables  him 
to  paint  those  wonderful  backgrounds  for  action  which  are 
the  despair  of  common  writers.  Sometimes  the  scenes  are 
sketched  in  with  but  a  touch  or  two  of  suggestion.  So, 
when  Richard  Feverel  and  Lucy  spend  an  evening  afloat, 
Meredith  writes:  "Hanging  between  two  heavens  on  the 
lake:  floating  to  her  voice:  the  moon  stepping  over  and 
through  white  shoals  of  soft  high  clouds  above  and  below: 
floating  to  her  voice — no  other  breath  abroad!  His  soul 
went  out  of  his  bodjr  as  he  listened."  Or,  when  Richard,  in 
gay  company,  passes  a  night  at  Richmond,  Meredith  says 
simply:  "Silver  was  seen  far  out  on  Thames.  The  wine 
ebbed,  and  the  laughter.  Sentiment  and  cigars  took  up  the 
wondrous  tale." 

Sometimes  the  description  is  long  and  minute,  but  always 
it  is  beautifully  fresh.  Thus  the  coming  of  dawn  is  pic- 
tured in  The  Amazing  Marriage:  "The  smell  of  rock-waters 
and  roots  of  herb  and  moss  grew  keen;  air  became  a  wine 
that  raised  the  breast  high  to  drink  it;  an  uplifting  coolness 
pervaded  the  heights.  .  .  .  The  plumes  of  cloud  now  slowly 
entered  into  the  lofty  arch  of  dawn  and  melted  from  brown 
to  purple  black.  .  .  .  The  armies  of  the  young  sunrise  in 
mountain-lands  neighbouring  the  plains,  vast  shadows,  were 
marching  over  woods  and  meads,  black  against  the  edge  of 
golden;  and  great  heights  were  cut  with  them,  and  bound- 
ing waters  took  the  leap  in  a  silvery  radiance  to  gloom ;  the 
bright  and  dark-banded  valleys  were  like  night  and  morn- 
ing taking  hands  down  the  sweep  of  their  rivers." 


INTRODUCTION  xix 


IV 


Meredith's  style  receives  its  final  and  distinctive  flavor, 
however,  from  the  liberal  dash  of  aphorism  with  which  his 
books  are  sprinkled.  Often  an  epigram  will  turn  upon  some 
metaphor.  Such  is  the  statement  that:  "A  bone  in  a  boy's 
mind  for  him  to  gnaw  and  worry  corrects  the  vagrancies  and 
promotes  the  healthy  activities,  whether  there  be  marrow 
in  it  or  not,"  or  the  exclamation:  "Who  are  not  fools  to  be 
set  spinning,  if  we  choose  to  whip  them  with  their  vanity ! 
It  is  the  consolation  of  the  great  to  watch  them  spin."  Such, 
too,  is  the  reflection  that:  "Most  of  the  people  one  has  at 
table  are  drums.  A  rub-a-dub-dub  on  them  is  the  only  way 
to  get  a  sound.  When  they  can  be  persuaded  to  do  it  upon 
one  another,  they  call  it  conversation."  More  frequently, 
the  epigram  is  a  neat  generalization  left  abstract,  as  for  ex- 
ample: "Who  rises  from  prayer  a  better  man,  his  prayer  is 
answered";  "Cynics  are  only  happy  in  making  the  world 
as  barren  to  others  as  they  have  made  it  for  themselves"; 
"Fools  run  jabbering  of  the  irony  of  fate  to  escape  the  an- 
noyance of  tracing  the  causes";  "Expediency  is  man's  wis- 
dom; doing  right  is  God's";  "Women  cannot  repose  on  a 
man  who  is  not  positive;  nor  have  they  much  gratification 
in  confounding  him";  "Convictions  are  generally  first  im- 
pressions sealed  with  later  prejudices";  "The  hero  of  two 
women  must  die  and  be  wept  over  in  common  before  they 
can  appreciate  one  another." 

A  thousand  such  jewels  glitter  in  the  richly  wrought  tap- 
estry of  Meredith's  style.  That  he  painstakingly  inserted 
them  and  wove  this  fabric  to  attract  attention  by  its  sin- 
gularity and  beauty,  he  cheerfully  admits  in  a  passage  of 
Emilia  in  England.  "The  point  to  be  considered,"  he  there 
remarks,  "is  whether  fiction  demands  a  perfectly  smooth 
surface.     Undoubtedly  a  scientific  work  does,  and  a  philo- 


xx  INTRODUCTION 

sophical  work  should.  When  we  ask  for  facts  simply  we 
feel  the  intrusion  of  style.  Of  fiction  it  is  a  part.  In  the 
one  case  the  classical  robe,  in  the  other  any  medieval  phan- 
tasy of  clothing." 

The  difficulty  with  a  style  so  artificial  and  ihtellectualized 
is  obvious.  Meredith,  according  to  Brownell,  "flatters  one's 
cleverness  at  first,  but  in  the  end  he  fatigues  it."  The  per- 
petual crackle  of  aphorism  and  metaphor  surprises,  grati- 
fies, and  then  wearies;  for  a  writer  who  will  never  Bay  a 
plain  thing  plainly,  not  only  keeps  his  readers  under  strain, 
but  soon  seems  himself  to  be  straining.  Nowhere  is  this 
more  evident  than  in  Meredith's  predilection  for  repeating 
a  single  happy  phrase  such  as  the  epithet  "rogue  in  porce- 
lain" applied  to  a  heroine.  Since  the  phrase  tickles  his 
fancy,  he  plays  with  it,  drops  it,  picks  it  up,  mumbles  it  over 
and  over  as  a  dog  might  a  bone,  and  through  chapter  after 
chapter  is  ready  at  any  pretext  to  run  round  and  round 
with  it  barking.  Despite  his  assiduous  striving  for  novelty, 
therefore,  Meredith  is  often  tedious,  an  effect  induced,  not 
merely  by  his  style  (whether  repetitious  or  gasping  after 
eccentricity),  but  also  by  his  method.  He  is  so  intent  upon 
weaving  his  commentary  upon  every  speech  and  action 
that  the  occasion  of  the  commentary  is  smothered.  A 
phrase  becomes  the  text  of  a  sermon,  a  gesture  the  excuse 
for  paragraphs  of  oblique  reflection.  Thus  he  forfeits  the 
advantage  of  downright  sincerity  and  of  forthright  progress, 
and  teases  interest  out  of  all  patience. 


Since  Meredith  is  an  intellectualist,  we  naturally  ask 
what  may  be  his  philosophy.  Unlike  Ibsen  or  Browning, 
he  preaches  no  doctrine.  He  offers  no  explicit  theory  of 
life.  Nor  does  he,  like  Dickens  or  Reade  or  Brieux,  advo- 
cate any  special  reform.     He  is  never  a  propagandist.     Some 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

have  lamented  this  fact;  more  have  seen  in  it  an  argument 
for  his  universality  and  permanence.  Though  he  fight  no 
battles  for  specific  causes,  his  influence  is  arrayed  in  general 
against  certain  tendencies  that  he  disapproves  and  would 
laugh  to  defeat.  Egoism,  sentimentalism,  hypocrisy,  are 
fair  game  for  his  comedy.  As  an  intellectualist  he  dislikes 
and  distrusts  excess  of  emotion — feeling  indulged  for  its  own 
sake.  "Sentimentalists,"  he  declares,  "are  they  who  seek 
to  enjoy  without  incurring  the  immense  debtorship  for  a 
thing  done." 

Well  might  Mrs.  Carlyle  complain  that  Meredith's  work 
lacked  tears.  That  it  does  so  he  would  be  the  first  to  admit, 
for  he  questions  the  worth  of  pathos  for  any  true  captain 
of  his  soul.  "Pathos  is  a  tide;  often  it  carries  the  awakener 
of  it  off  his  feet,"  Meredith  writes.  "We  cannot  quite  pre- 
serve our  dignity  when  we  stoop  to  the  work  of  calling  forth 
tears.  Moses  had  probably  to  take  a  nimble  jump  away 
from  the  rock  after  that  venerable  lawgiver  had  knocked 
the  water  out  of  it."  So  Meredith  sacrifices  passion  to 
analysis.  His  heroes  and  heroines  rarely  love  so  simply 
and  so  ardently  as  do  Richard  and  Lucy;  but  the  affection 
of  even  this  delectable  pair  is  modified  in  presentation  by 
the  playful  cynicism  of  the  narrator  of  their  story.  On  the 
other  hand,  it  is  futile  to  cavil  at  Meredith  or  any  other 
artist  for  lacking  such  qualities  as  are  incompatible  with 
those  he  most  notably  possesses.  You  cannot  expect  aban- 
don of  passion  in  the  characters  of  a  novelist  whose  forte  is 
detachment  and  sublimated  common  sense.  Your  intel- 
lectualist is  not  to  be  blamed  if  he  fails  to  write  as  a  sentimen- 
talist. 

Meredith's  positive  philosophy  has  been  formulated  by 
Elmer  J.  Bailey  in  terms  that  may  be  briefly  paraphrased: 
Meredith  thinks  of  man  as  torn  between  Nature  and  Cir- 
cumstance. By  Nature  is  meant  the  world  of  instinct,  of 
healthy  normal  impulse.     By  Circumstance  is  meant  the 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

world  of  artificial  laws  erected  by  society  as  the  machinery 
for  its  conduct  and  control.  Nature  is  spontaneous;  Cir- 
cumstance is  traditional.  Man  may  err  by  allowing  to 
either  undue  dominance.  His  only  safety  lies  in  the  use  of 
his  reason  which  will  enable  him  to  keep  both  Nature  and 
Circumstance  in  proper  equipoise.  And  the  most  service- 
able instrument  of  reason  for  detecting  the  follies  of  con- 
vention or  of  feeling  is  the  comic  spirit.  Without  this  spirit 
we  are  not  truly  intellectual,  for,  as  Meredith  has  said: 
"Not  to  have  a  sympathy  with  the  playful  mind  is  not  to 
have  a  mind."  Let  us  possess  mind,  he  seems  to  urge,  and 
through  mind  cultivate  the  soul.  In  The  Tragic  Comedians 
he  remarks:  "It  is  tne  soul  which  does  things  in  life — the 
rest  is  vapor.  .  .  .  Action  means  life  to  the  soul  as  to  the 
body.  .  .  .  Compromise  is  virtual  death;  it  is  the  pact  be- 
tween cowardice  and  comfort,  under  the  title  of  expediency. 
So  do  we  gather  dead  matter  about  us.  So  are  we  gradu- 
ally self-stifled,  corrupt.  The  war  with  evil  in  every  form 
must  be  incessant;  we  cannot  have  peace."  The  serious 
note  here  sounded  may  be  heard  again  in  his  letter  to  a  friend, 
Mrs.  Gilman.  There  Meredith  says:  "I  have  written  al- 
ways with  the  perception  that  there  is  no  life  but  of  the 
spirit;  that  the  concrete  is  the  shadowy;  yet  that  the  way 
to  spiritual  life  lies  in  the  complete  unfolding  of  the  crea- 
ture, not  in  the  nipping  of  his  passions.  An  outrage  to 
nature  helps  to  extinguish  his  light." 

VI 

Just  such  an  outrage  to  nature  perpetrated  with  the  best 
intentions,  but  in  blind  folly,  is  the  subject  of  Meredith's 
novel,  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel.  A  dogmatic  and  con- 
ventional father  endeavors  to  determine  his  son's  life  ac- 
cording to  an  infallible  system  of  parental  dictation.  In- 
stead of  allowing  the  boy  to  develop  naturally  from  within, 
Sir  Austin  seeks  to  mould  him  absolutely  from  without. 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

The  failure  of  this  experiment  makes  the  story.  The  first 
eleven  chapters  are  in  a  sense  introductory.  They  present 
to  the  reader  the  members  of  the  Feverel  family  and  de- 
scribe with  gusto  a  poaching  escapade  of  Richard's  youth. 
From  this  first  ordeal  he  emerges  triumphant  by  obeying 
the  impulse  of  his  heart  to  make  frank  confession,  despite 
his  father's  endeavor  to  patch  up  the  matter  by  plotting. 
Then,  in  the  next  twenty  chapters,  follows  the  account  of 
Richard's  passion  for  the  lovely  Lucy  and  of  the  machina- 
tions of  those  who  would  nip  it  in  the  bud.  All  these  checks 
are  for  the  moment  overcome  when  Richard,  after  having 
suffered  separation  from  Lucy,  is  again  thrown  with  her  by 
chance  and  impulsively  marries  her. 

In  the  chapters  next  ensuing  Sir  Austin,  instead  of  grace- 
fully accepting  defeat,  masks  and  crushes  his  emotions  and 
permits  his  Mephistophelian  nephew,  the  cynical  Adrian, 
to  scheme  for  Richard's  alienation  from  his  bride.  Richard 
is  lured  away  and  succumbs  to  the  spell  of  a  wicked  enchant- 
ress whom  at  first  he  has  thought  to  reform;  and  then, 
shamed  and  distraught,  he  wanders  abroad,  seeking  a  purge 
for  his  sin.  Meanwhile,  the  deserted  wife,  at  Adrian's  in- 
stigation, has  been  assailed  by  a  villain,  the  husband  of 
Richard's  enchantress.  Issuing  unscathed  from  her  ordeal, 
Lucy  is  tardily  accepted  by  the  complacent  Sir  Austin  and 
received,  with  her  child,  at  his  house.  Since  Richard  has 
at  length  achieved  self-mastery  and  has  resolved  to  return 
and  confess  to  his  wife,  and  plead  for  her  grace,  a  general 
reconciliation  seems  imminent.  But  the  novelist  will  not 
allow  his  tale  to  end  happily  lest  its  moral  be  frustrate.  Ac- 
cordingly, although  Richard  returns  for  an  hour  to  be  freely 
forgiven  by  Lucy,  he  dashes  away  forthwith,  despite  her  en- 
treaties, to  duel  with  her  persecutor.  Joy,  even  yet,  might 
emerge  from  disaster,  since  Richard  escapes  from  the  duel 
with  only  a  wound,  but  the  author  continues  implacable. 
His  heroine,  in  nursing  her  husband,  succumbs  to  a  strain 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

long  protracted,  and  Richard,  though  recovered  in  body,  is 
left  but  a  wreck  of  his  former  self.  Such  is  the  desolating 
outcome  of  attempting  to  regulate  healthy  human  loves  by 
a  worldly  system. 

What  is  tragic  for  hero  and  heroine  is  gravely  comic  to 
the  eye  of  the  intellectualist  surveying  the  folly  of  men  from 
a  height  far  above  the  troubled  waves  of  their  passion.  For 
Meredith,  Sir  Austin  incarnates  a  comic  error.  His  story 
is  the  comedy  of  one  who  theorizes  at  length  upon  life,  but 
utterly  fails  to  deal  with  it  practically.  Of  course  Sir  Aus- 
tin takes  no  blame  to  himself.  It  is  useless,  he  reflects,  "to 
base  any  system  on  a  human  being,"  even  though  this  is 
precisely  what  he  has  done.  And  when  Richard  is  to  return 
to  his  wife,  and  Sir  Austin  has  at  last  grown  kind  to  her,  we 
hear  that:  "He  could  now  admit  that  instinct  had  so  far 
beaten  science;  for,  as  Richard  was  coming,  as  all  were  to 
be  happy,  his  wisdom  embraced  them  all  paternally  as  the 
author  of  their  happiness."  Of  Sir  Austin,  Meredith  re- 
marks: "He  had  experimented  on  humanity  in  the  person 
of  the  son  he  loved  as  his  life,  and  at  once,  when  the  experi- 
ment appeared  to  have  failed,  all  humanity's  failings  fell  on 
the  shoulders  of  his  son."  The  reader's  inevitable  reaction 
to  the  novel  is  expressed  by  Lady  Blandish:  "Oh!  how  sick 
I  am  of  theories  and  systems  and  the  pretensions  of  men ! 
...  I  shall  hate  the  name  of  science  till  the  day  I  die. 
Give  me  nothing  but  commonplace,  unpretending  people!" 

That  the  plot  of  Richard  Feverel  unduly  tantalizes  goes 
without  saying.  The  author  keeps  his  hero  and  heroine 
apart  by  main  force.  Granting  that  Richard  is  the  victim 
of  rascals,  as  well  as  of  a  ridiculous  system,  his  easy  deser- 
tion of  the  wife  whom  he  loves  and  his  continued  separation 
from  her  seem  to  lie  in  Meredith's  will  rather  than  in  that 
of  his  hero.  Richard's  yielding  to  Mrs.  Mount,  described 
with  remarkable  power,  is  more  natural,  but  his  mooning 
about  Germany  while  Lucy  is  left  to  struggle  alone  is  as 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

exasperating  as  her  failure  to  apprise  him  of  the  fact  that 
she  is  to  bear  him  a  child.  Splendid  as  is  the  last  meeting 
of  Eichard  and  Lucy,  declared  by  Stevenson  to  be  "the 
strongest  scene  since  Shakespeare  in  the  English  tongue," 
it  forfeits  something  of  greatness  because  of  perversity. 
More  natural  is  the  faint  sub-plot  intended  to  echo  the  cen- 
tral theme  of  the  book  in  its  story  of  Clare's  hopeless  love 
for  Richard,  at  first  reciprocated,  and  then  blocked  by  Sir 
Austin  and  the  girl's  mother. 

VII 

In  characterization,  this  novel  excels.  Its  folk  are  per- 
sons and  not  alone  types.  Chief  of  the  Feverel  clan  is  Rich- 
ard's •  father,  Sir  Austin,  wounded  by  the  infidelity  of  his 
wife  and  his  friend,  yet  an  intellectual  egoist,  proud  of  his 
plans  for  ruling  the  family  and  equally  proud  of  his  epigrams. 
Given  less  fully  are  Richard's  aunt,  the  worldly  mother  of 
Clare,  and  his  uncles — the  guardsman  Algernon,  who  has 
lost  a  leg  at  cricket,  and  crochety  Hippias,  "the  dyspepsy." 
Of  Richard's  cousins  one  is  sympathetic,  and  the  other  is 
Satanic.  The  first,  Austin  Wentworth,  lives  in  disgrace  for 
having  repaired  a  youthful  indiscretion  by  marrying  a  house- 
maid. As  for  the  second,  Adrian  Harley,  "the  Wise  Youth," 
he  is  Richard's  tutor,  whose  heart  has  dropped  to  his  stomach, 
a  clever  worldling  and  the  contemner  of  honest  passion,  one 
of  the  most  accomplished  cynics  of  all  literature.  There 
are  minor  characters,  too,  but  equally  vital,  from  blunt 
Farmer  Blaize  and  his  son,  and  the  disgruntled  farm-hand 
Tom  Bakewell,  to  Sir  Austin's  sentimental  companion  Lady 
Blandish,  and  Ripton,  the  faithful  old  dog. 

Of  the  women  three  stand  to  the  fore— Lucy,  Mrs.  Mount, 
and  Mrs.  Berry.  The  adorable  Lucy  is  a  northern  Juliet 
brought  to  sudden  maturity  by  her  passion  for  Richard. 
Beneath  him  in  birth,  she  is  more  than  his  equal  in  manner 
and  mind  and  spirit,     Though  shown  only  in  glimpses,  she 


xx  vi  INTRODUCTION 

is  never  less  than  entrancing.  Mrs.  Mount  is  the  dashing 
temptress,  a  little  worn  and  half-hearted  until  piqued  by 
Richard's  indifference  into  playing  her  game  more  earnestly, 
and  then  exerting  all  the  fascinations  of  the  wicked.  Most 
original  of  the  three  is  Lucy's  vulgar  befriender,  Mrs.  Berry, 
a  lovable  "old-black-satin  bunch,"  as  Meredith  tags  her, 
wise  but  irrelevant,  aware  of  the  sensual  springs  beneath  our 
polite  pretenses,  a  Juliet's  nurse  grown  mellow.  It  is  to  be 
noted,  however,  that  none  of  these  characters  is  really  dy- 
namic, unless  it  be  Mrs.  Doria  Forey,  who  suffers  a  change  of 
heart  after  sacrificing  that  of  her  daughter,  and  Richard 
who  somewhat  alters  under  the  stress  of  his  ordeal. 

Subordinate  to  character,  plot,  and  central  idea,  yet 
scarcely  less  effective  in  producing  the  total  effect  of  the 
novel,  are  its  setting,  its  style,  and  its  author's  point  of 
view.  Already  Meredith's  point  of  view  has  been  defined 
as  that  of  the  writer  of  comedy.  In  the  dinner  scene  at 
Richmond,  for  example,  you  are  conscious  of  the  author 
smiling  apart  upon  callow  Richard  and  Ripton  caught  in  the 
snares  of  the  demi-monde.  It  is  Thackeray  over  again,  let- 
ting us  see  the  self-deception  of  Pendennis  in  his  admiration 
of  the  Fotheringay.  Sometimes,  in  this  novel,  Meredith 
apostrophizes  his  people,  emitting  lyrical  exclamations  of 
admiration  or  disgust  at  their  conduct.  More  often,  he  re- 
mains aloof,  though  none  the  less  present  in  spirit.  Rarely 
does  he  here  conform  to  Brownell's  statement,  more  applica- 
ble to  his  later  fictions,  that:  ''He  is  not  merely  detached, 
he  is  obliterated.  All  he  shows  us  of  himself  is  his  talent; 
his  standpoint  is  to  be  divined." 

That  which  especially  reveals  the  author's  standpoint  is 
what  Professor  Saintsbury,  in  referring  to  this  novel,  has 
termed  its  "style  saturated  with  epigrammatic  quality;  and 
of  strange  ironic  persiflage  permeating  thought,  picture, 
and  expression."  The  persiflage  appears,  above  all,  in  the 
speeches  of  the  saturnine  Adrian.    As  for  the  epigrams, 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

their  number  is  justified  in  part  by  supposing  them  to  come 
from  Sir  Austin's  collection  entitled  "The  Pilgrim's  Scrip." 
They  abound,  however,  in  the  speech  of  others  and  in  the 
narrative  proper.  Typical  spicings  of  style  are  the  follow- 
ing: "To  anchor  the  heart  by  any  object  ere  we  have  half 
traversed  the  world  is  youth's  foolishness";  "It  is  difficult 
for  those  who  think  very  earnestly  for  their  children  to  know 
when  their  children  are  thinking  on  their  own  account"; 
"If  immeasurable  love  were  perfect  wisdom,  one  human 
being  might  almost  impersonate  Providence  to  another"; 
"The  ways  of  women,  which  are  involution,  and  their  prac- 
tices, which  are  opposition,  are  generally  best  hit  upon  by 
guesswork  and  a  bold  word";  "The  God  of  this  world  is  in 
the  machine,  not  out  of  it";  " Sentimentalism  is  a  happy 
pastime  and  an  important  science  to  the  timid,  the  idle,  and 
the  heartless;  but  a  damning  one  to  them  who  have  any- 
thing to  forfeit";  "The  task  of  reclaiming  a  bad  man  is  ex- 
tremely seductive  to  good  women.  Dear  to  their  tender 
hearts  as  old  china  is  a  bad  man  they  are  mending."  Even 
illiterate  Mrs.  Berry  talks  in  epigram,  now  en  checked  matri- 
mony, which  she  holds  to  be  as  injurious  as  checked  per- 
spiration, and  now  on  the  wickedness  of  old  people,  which, 
she  affirms,  is  the  excuse  for  the  wildness  of  young  ones.  "I 
think  it's  always  the  plan  in  a  'dielemmer,'"  she  says,  "to 
pray  God  and  walk  forward."  To  Lucy,  the  bride,  she 
gives  this  advice:  "When  the  parlour  fire  gets  low,  put  coals 
on  the  kitchen  fire.  .  .  .  Don't  neglect  your  cookery.  Kiss- 
ing don't  last;   cookery  do." 

Aside  from  its  aphorisms,  the  style  of  Feverel  is  essentially 
clever,  but  by  no  means  so  artificial  as  that  of  Meredith's 
later  novels.  If  a  stage  direction  seem  occasionally  over- 
elaborate,  as:  "Adrian  gesticulated  an  acquiesced  with- 
drawal," others  are  felicitous,  as:  "At  last  Hippias  perspired 
in  conviction,"  or:  "He  set  his  sight  hard  at  the  blue  ridges 
of  the  hills,"  or,  of  Ripton  draining  a  bumper  at  a  gulp:  "The 


xxv'm  INTRODUCTION 

farthing  rushlight  of  his  reason  leapt  and  expired.  He  tum- 
bled to  the  sofa  and  there  stretched."  There  are  fine  pas- 
sages, too,  of  description,  like  those  concerned  with  the  boy- 
ish adventures  of  Richard  and  Ripton,  the  Ferdinand  and 
Miranda  meeting  of  hero  and  heroine,  the  temptation  epi- 
sode, and  the  storm  in  the  German  forest  by  night.  "Up 
started  the  whole  forest  in  violet  fire.  He  saw  the  country 
at  the  foot  of  the  hills  to  the  bounding  Rhine  gleam,  quiver, 
extinguished.  .  .  .  Lower  down  the  abysses  of  air  rolled 
the  wrathful  crash;  then  white  thrusts  of  light  were  darted 
from  the  sky,  and  great  curving  ferns,  seen  steadfast  in 
pallor  a  second,  were  supernaturally  agitated  and  vanished. 
Then  a  shrilling  song  roused  in  the  leaves  and  the  herbage. 
Prolonged  and  louder  it  sounded,  as  deeper  and  heavier  the 
deluge  pressed.  A  mighty  force  of  water  satisfied  the  de- 
sire of  the  earth."  Admirable,  also,  are  the  mere  hints  of 
background  given  in  a  flashing  phrase  that  conjures  up  the 
scene:  " Look  at  those  old  elm  branches !  How  they  seem  to 
mix  among  the  stars ! — glittering  prints  of  winter." 

Taken  all  in  all,  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel  may  be  reck- 
oned as  Meredith's  masterpiece.  "  My  old  conviction  grows 
stronger,"  writes  Le  Galliene,  "that  it  will  be  Richard  Feverel 
and  perhaps  no  other  of  his  novels  .  .  .  that  will  keep  his 
name  alive  in  English  literature."  Certainly,  Meredith  has 
here  allowed  to  his  characters  a  charm  of  personality  that 
later  he  tends  to  sacrifice  in  stressing  their  purely  typical 
traits.  He  shows  here  a  fire  of  sincerity  rarely  afterwards 
burning  so  brightly.  He  is  less  the  mere  essayist  and  more 
the  lyric  and  dramatic  tale-teller.  He  has  set  forth  with 
skill  the  elements  of  a  large  problem,  confirming  the  truth 
of  Chesterton's  remark  that  he  combines  subtlety  with 
primal  energy,  and  criticizes  life  without  losing  his  appetite 

Frank  Wadleigh  Chandler. 
University  of  Cincinnati. 


THE   ORDEAL  OF 
RICHARD  FEVEREL 

CHAPTEE   I 
THE    INMATES    OF   RAYNHAM    ABBEY 

Some  years  ago  a  book  was  published  under  the  title 
of  "The  Pilgrim's  Scrip."  It  consisted  of  a  selection  of 
original  aphorisms  by  an  anonymous  gentleman,  who  in 
this  bashful  manner  gave  a  bruised  heart  to  the  world. 

He  made  no  pretension  to  novelty.  "Our  new  thoughts 
have  thrilled  dead  bosoms,"  he  wrote;  by  which  avowal 
it  may  be  seen  that  youth  had  manifestly  gone  from 
him,  since  he  had  ceased  to  be  jealous  of  the  ancients. 
There  was  a  half-sigh  floating  through  his  pages  for 
those  days  of  intellectual  coxcombry,  when  ideas  come 
to  us  affecting  the  embraces  of  virgins,  and  swear  to  us 
they  are  ours  alone,  and  no  one  else  have  they  ever 
visited :  and  we  believe  them. 

For  an  example  of  his  ideas  of  the  sex  he  said: 

"I  expect  that  Woman  will  be  the  last  thing  civilized 
by  Man." 

Some  excitement  was  produced  in  the  bosoms  of  ladies 
by  so  monstrous  a  scorn  of  them. 

One  adventurous  person  betook  herself  to  the  Heralds' 
College,  and  there  ascertained  that  a  Griffin  between  two 
Wheatsheaves,  which  stood  on  the  title-page  of  the  book, 
formed  the  crest  of  Sir  Austin  Absworthy  Bearne  Feverel, 
Baronet,  of  Raynham  Abbey,  in  a  certain  Western  county 
folding  Thames :  a  man  of  wealth  and  honour,  and  a  some- 
what lamentable  history. 

The  outline  of  the  baronet's  story  was  by  no  means  new. 
He  had  a  wife,  and  he  had  a  friend.    His  marriage  was  for 

1 


2        THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  EEVEREL 

love;  his  wife  was  a  beauty;  his  friend  was  a  sort  of  poet. 
His  wife  had  his  whole  heart,  and  his  friend  all  his  confi- 
dence. When  he  selected  Denzil  Somers  from  among  his 
college  chums,  it  was  not  on  account  of  any  similarity  of 
disposition  between  them,  but  from  his  intense  worship  of 
genius,  which  made  him  overlook  the  absence  of  principle 
in  his  associate  for  the  sake  of  such  brilliant  promise. 
Denzil  had  a  small  patrimony  to  lead  off  with,  and  that  he 
dissipated  before  he  left  college;  henceforth  he  was  de- 
pendent upon  his  admirer,  with  whom  he  lived,  filling  a 
nominal  post  of  bailiff  to  the  estates,  and  launching  forth 
verse  of  some  satiric  and  sentimental  quality;  for  being 
inclined  to  vice,  and  occasionally,  and  in  a  quiet  way, 
practising  it,  he  was  of  course  a  sentimentalist  and  a 
satirist,  entitled  to  lash  the  Age  and  complain  of  human 
nature.  His  earlier  poems,  published  under  the  pseu- 
donym of  Diaper  Sandoe,  were  so  pure  and  bloodless  in 
their  love  passages,  and  at  the  same  time  so  biting  in 
their  moral  tone,  that  his  reputation  was  great  among  the 
virtuous,  who  form  the  larger  portion  of  the  English  book- 
buying  public.  Election-seasons  called  him  to  ballad- 
poetry  on  behalf  of  the  Tory  party.  Diaper  possessed 
undoubted  fluency,  but  did  little,  though  Sir  Austin 
was  ever  expecting  much  of  him. 

A  languishing,  inexperienced  woman,  whose  husband  in 
mental  and  in  moral  stature  is  more  than  the  ordinary 
height  above  her,  and  who,  now  that  her  first  romantic 
admiration  of  his  lofty  bearing  has  worn  off,  and  her  fret- 
ful little  refinements  of  taste  and  sentiment  are  not  in- 
stinctively responded  to,  is  thrown  into  no  wholesome 
household  collision  with  a  fluent  man,  fluent  in  prose  and 
rhyme.  Lady  Feverel,  when  she  first  entered  on  her 
duties  at  Raynham,  was  jealous  of  her  husband's  friend. 
By  degrees  she  tolerated  him.  In  time  he  touched  his 
guitar  in  her  chamber,  and  they  played  Rizzio  and  Mary 
together. 

"For  I  am  not  the  first  who  found 
The  name  of  Mary  fatal ! " 

says  a  subsequent  sentimental  alliterative  love-poem  of 
Diaper's. 

Such  was  the  outline  of  the  story.     But  the  baronet 


THE  INMATES  OF  RAYNHAM  ABBEY        3 

could  fill  it  up.  He  bad  opened  his  soul  to  thpse  two. 
He  had  been  noble  Love  to  tbe  one,  and  to  tbe  other 
perfect  Friendship.  He  had  bid  them  be  brother  and 
sister  whom  he  loved,  and  live  a  Golden  Age  with  him  at 
Raynham.  In  fact,  he  had  been  prodigal  of  the  excel- 
lences of  his  nature,  which  it  is  not  good  to  be,  and,  like 
Timon,  he  became  bankrupt,  and  fell  upon  bitterness. 

The  faithless  lady  was  of  no  particular  family;  an 
orphan  daughter  of  an  admiral  who  educated  her  on  his 
half-pay,  and  her  conduct  struck  but  at  the  man  whose 
name  she  bore. 

After  five  years  of  marriage,  and  twelve  of  friendship, 
Sir  Austin  was  left  to  his  loneliness  with  nothing  to  ease 
his  heart  of  love  upon  save  a  little  baby  boy  in  a  cradle. 
He  forgave  the  man:  he  put  him  aside  as  poor  for  his 
wrath.  The  woman  he  could  not  forgive;  she  had  sinned 
every  way.  Simple  ingratitude  to  a  benefactor  was  a 
pardonable  transgression,  for  he  was  not  one  to  recount 
and  crush  the  culprit  under  the  heap  of  his  good  deeds. 
But  her  he  had  raised  to  be  his  equal,  and  he  judged  her 
as  his  equal.  She  had  blackened  the  world's  fair  aspeot 
for  him. 

In  the  presence  of  that  world,  so  different  to  him  now, 
he  preserved  his  wonted  demeanour,  and  made  his  features 
a  flexible  mask.  Mrs.  Doria  Forey,  his  widowed  sister, 
said  that  Austin  might  have  retired  from  his  Parlia- 
mentary career  for  a  time,  and  given  up  gaieties  and  that 
kind  of  thing;  her  opinion,  founded  on  observation  of  him 
in  public  and  private,  was,  that  the  light  thing  who  had 
taken  flight  was  but  a  feather  on  her  brother's  Feverel- 
heart,  and  his  ordinary  course  of  life  would  be  resumed. 
There  are  times  when v  common  men  cannot  bear  the 
weight  of  just  so  much.  Hippias  Feveral,  one  of  his 
brothers,  thought  him  immensely  improved  by  his  mis- 
fortune, if  the  loss  of  such  a  person  could  be  so  desig- 
nated; and  seeing  that  Hippias  received  in  consequence 
free  quarters  at  Raynham,  and  possession  of  the  wing  of 
the  Abbey  she  had  inhabited,  it  is  profitable  to  know  his 
thoughts.  If  the  baronet  had  given  two  or  three  blazing 
dinners  in  the  great  hall  he  would  have  deceived  people 
generally,  as  he  did  his  relatives  and  intimates.  He  was 
too  sick  for  that:  fit  only  for  passive  acting. 


4         THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

The  nursemaid  waking  in  the  night  beheld  a  solitary 
figure  darkening  a  lamp  above  her  little  sleeping  charge, 
and  became  so  used  to  the  sight  as  never  to  wake  with  a 
start.  One  night  she  was  strangely  aroused  by  a  sound 
of  sobbing.  The  baronet  stood  beside  the  cot  in  his  long 
black  cloak  and  travelling  cap.  His  fingers  shaded  a  lamp, 
and  reddened  against  the  fitful  darkness  that  ever  and 
anon  went  leaping  up  the  wall.  She  could  hardly  believe 
her  senses  to  see  the  austere  gentleman,  dead  silent,  drop- 
ping tear  upon  tear  before  her  eyes.  She  lay  stone-still 
in  a  trance  of  terror  and  mournfulness,  mechanically 
counting  the  tears  as  they  fell,  one  by  one.  The  hidden 
face,  the  fall  and  flash  of  those  heavy  drops  in  the  light 
of  the  lamp  he  held,  the  upright,  awful  figure,  agitated  at 
regular  intervals  like  a  piece  of  clockwork  by  the  low 
murderous  catch  of  his  breath:  it  was  so  piteous  to  her 
poor  human  nature  that  her  heart  began  wildly  palpitat- 
ing. Involuntarily  the  poor  girl  cried  out  to  him,  "Oh, 
sir!"  and  fell  a-weeping.  Sir  Austin  turned  the  lamp 
on  her  pillow,  and  harshly  bade  her  go  to  sleep,  striding 
from  the  room  forthwith.  He  dismissed  her  with  a  purse 
the  next  day. 

Once,  when  he  was  seven  years  old,  the  little  fellow 
woke  up  at  night  to  see  a  lady  bending  over  him.  He 
talked  of  this  the  next  day,  but  it  was  treated  as  a  dream ; 
until  in  the  course  of  the  day  his  uncle  Algernon  was 
driven  home  from  Lobourne  cricket-ground  with  a  broken 
leg.  Then  it  was  recollected  that  there  was  a  family 
ghost;  and,  though  no  member  of  the  family  believed  in 
the  ghost,  none  would  have  given  up  a  circumstance  that 
testified  to  its  existence;  for  to  possess  a  ghost  is  a  dis- 
tinction above  titles. 

Algernon  Feverel  lost  his  leg,  and  ceased  to  be  a  gentle- 
man in  the  Guards.  Of  the  other  uncles  of  young  Richard, 
Cuthbert,  the  sailor,  perished  in  a  spirited  boat  expedition 
against  a  slaving  negro  chief  up  the  Niger.  Some  of  the 
gallant  lieutenant's  trophies  of  war  decorated  the  little 
boy's  play-shed  at  Raynham,  and  he  bequeathed  his  sword 
to  Richard,  whose  hero  he  was.  The  diplomatist  and  beau, 
Vivian,  ended  his  flutterings  from  flower  to  flower  by  mak- 
ing an  improper  marriage,  as  is  the  fate  of  many  a  beau, 
and   was   struck   out   of   the  list   of  visitors.     Algernon 


THE  INMATES  OF  KAYNHAM  ABBEY         5 

generally  occupied  the  baronet's  disused  town-house,  a 
wretched  being,  dividing  his  time  between  horse  and  card 
exercise :  possessed,  it  was  said,  of  the  absurd  notion  that 
a  man  who  has  lost  his  balance  by  losing  his  leg  may 
regain  it  by  sticking  to  the  bottle.  At  least,  whenever 
he  and  his  brother  Hippias  got  together,  they  never  failed 
to  try  whether  one  leg,  or  two,  stood  the  bottle  best.  Much 
of  a  puritan  as  Sir  Austin  was  in  his  habits,  he  was  too 
good  a  host,  and  too  thorough  a  gentleman,  to  impose 
them  upon  his  guests.  The  brothers,  and  other  relatives, 
might  do  as  they  would  while  they  did  not  disgrace  the 
name,  and  then  it  was  final :  they  must  depart  to  behold 
his  countenance  no  more. 

Algernon  Feverel  was  a  simple  man,  who  felt,  sub- 
sequent to  his  misfortune,  as  he  had  perhaps  dimly  fancied 
it  before,  that  his  career  lay  in  his  legs,  and  was  now 
irrevocably  cut  short.  He  taught  the  boy  boxing,  and 
shooting,  and  the  arts  of  fence,  and  superintended  the 
direction  of  his  animal  vigour  with  a  melancholy  vivacity. 
The  remaining  energies  of  Algernon's  mind  were  devoted 
to  animadversions  on  swift  bowling.  He  preached  it  over 
the  county,  struggling  through  laborious  literary  com- 
positions, addressed  to  sporting  newspapers,  on  the  De- 
cline of  Cricket.  It  was  Algernon  who  witnessed  and 
chronicled  young  Eichard's  first  fight,  which  was  with 
young  Tom  Blaize  of  Belthorpe  Farm,  three  years  the 
boy's  senior. 

Hippias  Feverel  was  once  thought  to  be  the  genius 
of  the  family.  It  was  his  ill  luck  to  have  strong  appe- 
tites and  a  weak  stomach;  and,  as  one  is  not  altogether 
fit  for  the  battle  of  life  who  is  engaged  in  a  perpetual 
contention  with  his  dinner,  Hippias  forsook  his  prospects 
at  the  Bar,  and,  in  the  embraces  of  dyspepsia,  compiled  his 
ponderous  work  on  the  Fairy  Mythology  of  Europe.  He 
had  little  to  do  with  the  Hope  of  Raynham  beyond  what 
he  endured  from  his  juvenile  tricks. 

A  venerable  lady,  known  as  Great-Aunt  Grantley,  who 
had  money  to  bequeath  to  the  heir,  occupied  with  Hippias 
the  background  of  the  house  and  shared  her  caudles  with 
him.  These  two  were  seldom  seen  till  the  dinner-hour, 
for  which  they  were  all  day  preparing,  and  probably  all 
night  remembering,  for  the  Eighteenth  Century  was  an 


6         THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

admirable  trencherman,   and  cast  age  aside  while  there 
was  a  dish  on  the  table. 

Mrs.  Doria  Forey  was  the  eldest  of  the  three  sisters  of 
the  baronet,  a  florid  affable  woman,  with  fine  teeth,  ex- 
ceedingly fine  light  wavy  hair,  a  Norman  nose,  and  a  rep- 
utation for  understanding  men;  and  that,  with  these 
practical  creatures,  always  means  the  art  of  managing 
them.  She  had  married  an  expectant  younger  son  of  a  good 
family,  who  deceased  before  the  fulfilment  of  his  pros- 
pects; and,  casting  about  in  her  mind  the  future  chances 
of  her  little  daughter  and  sole  child,  Clare,  she  marked 
down  a  probability.  The  far  sight,  the  deep  determination, 
the  resolute  perseverance  of  her  sex,  where  a  daughter  is 
to  be  provided  for  and  a  man  to  be  overthrown,  instigated 
her  to  invite  herself  to  Raynham,  where,  with  that  daugh- 
ter, she  fixed  herself. 

The  other  two  Feverel  ladies  were  the  wife  of  Colonel 
Wentworth  and  the  widow  of  Mr.  Justice  Harley:  and 
the  only  thing  remarkable  about  them  was  that  they  were 
mothers  of  sons  of  some  distinction. 

Austin  Wentworth's  story  was  of  that  wretched  char- 
acter which  to  be  comprehended,  that  justice  should  be 
dealt  him,  must  be  told  out  and  openly;  which  no  one 
dares  now  do. 

For  a  fault  in  early  youth,  redeemed  by  him  nobly, 
according  to  his  light,  he  was  condemned  to  undergo  the 
world's  harsh  judgment:  not  for  the  fault — for  its  atone- 
ment. 

«  —  Married  his  mother's  housemaid,"  whispered  Mrs. 
Doria,  with  a  ghastly  look,  and  a  shudder  at  young  men 
of  republican  sentiments,  which  he  was  reputed  to  enter- 
tain. . 

"The  compensation  for  Injustice,"  says  the  Pilgrims 
Scrip,"  "is,  that  in  that  dark  Ordeal  we  gather  the 
worthiest  around  us." 

And  the  baronet's  fair  friend,  Lady  Blandish,  and  some 
few  true  men  and  women,  held  Austin  Wentworth  high. 

He  did  not  live  with  his  wife;  and  Sir  Austin,  whose 
mind  was  bent  on  the  future  of  our  species,  reproached 
him  with  being  barren  to  posterity,  while  knaves  were 
propagating. 

The    principal    characteristic    of    the    second    nephew, 


THE  INMATES  OE  KAYNHAM  ABBEY         7 

Adrian  Harley,  was  his  sagacity.  He  was  essentially  the 
wise  youth,  both  in  counsel  and  in  action. 

"In  action,"  the  "Pilgrim's  Scrip"  observes,  "Wisdom 
goes  by  majorities." 

Adrian  had  an  instinct  for  the  majority,  and,  as  the 
world  invariably  found  him  enlisted  in  its  ranks,  hia 
appellation  of  wise  youth  was  acquiesced  in  without 
irony. 

The  wise  youth,  then,  had  the  world  with  him,  but  no 
friends.  Nor  did  he  wish  for  those  troublesome  append- 
ages of  success.  He  caused  himself  to  be  required  by 
people  who  could  serve  him;  feared  by  such  as  could 
injure.  Not  that  he  went  out  of  the  way  to  secure  his 
end,  or  risked  the  expense  of  a  plot.  He  did  the  work 
as  easily  as  he  ate  his  daily  bread.  Adrian  was  an  epi- 
curean; one  whom  Epicurus  would  have  scourged  out  of 
his  garden,  certainly:  an  epicurean  of  our  modern  no- 
tions. To  satisfy  his  appetites  without  rashly  staking  his 
character,  was  the  wise  youth's  problem  for  life.  He  had 
no  intimates  except  Gibbon  and  Horace,  and  the  society 
of  these  fine  aristocrats  of  literature  helped  him  to  ac- 
cept humanity  as  it  had  been,  and  was;  a  supreme  ironic 
procession,  with  laughter  of  Gods  in  the  background. 
Why  not  laughter  of  mortals  also?  Adrian  had  his  laugh 
in  his  comfortable  corner.  He  possessed  peculiar  at- 
tributes of  a  heathen  God.  He  was  a  disposer  of  men: 
he  was  polished,  luxurious,  and  happy — at  their  cost.  He 
lived  in  eminent  self-content,  as  one  lying  on  soft  cloud, 
lapt  in  sunshine.  Nor  Jove,  nor  Apollo,  cast  eye  upon 
the  maids  of  earth  with  cooler  fire  of  selection,  or  pur- 
sued them  in  the  covert  with  more  sacred  impunity. 
And  he  enjoyed  his  reputation  for  virtue  as  something 
additional.  Stolen  fruits  are  said  to  be  sweet;  undeserved 
rewards  are  exquisite. 

The  best  of  it  was,  that  Adrian  made  no  pretences.  He 
did  not  solicit  the  favourable  judgment  of  the  world. 
Nature  and  he  attempted  no  other  concealment  than  the 
ordinary  mask  men  wear.  And  yet  the  world  would 
proclaim  him  moral,  as  well  as  wise,  and  the  pleasing 
converse  every  way  of  his  disgraced  cousin  Austin. 

In  a  word,  Adrian  Harley  had  mastered  his  philosophy 
at  the  early  age  of  one-and-twenty.    Many  would  be  glad 


8         THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

to  say  the  same  at  that  age  twice-told :  they  carry  in 
their  breasts  a  burden  with  which  Adrian's  was  not 
loaded.  Mrs.  Doria  was  nearly  right  about  his  heart.  A 
singular  mishap  (at  his  birth,  possibly,  or  before  it)  had 
unseated  that  organ,  and  shaken  it  down  to  his  stomach, 
where  it  was  a  much  lighter,  nay,  an  inspiring  weight,  and 
encouraged  him  merrily  onward.  Throned  there  it  looked 
on  little  that  did  not  arrive  to  gratify  it.  Already  that 
region  was  a  trifle  prominent  in  the  person  of  the  wise 
youth,  and  carried,  as  it  were,  the  flag  of  his  philosophi- 
cal tenets  in  front  of  him.  He  was  charming  after  dinner, 
with  men  or  with  women:  delightfully  sarcastic:  perhaps 
a  little  too  unscrupulous  in  his  moral  tone,  but  that  his 
moral  reputation  belied  him,  and  it  must  be  set  down  to 
generosity  of  disposition. 

Such  was  Adrian  Harley,  another  of  Sir  Austin's  in- 
tellectual favourites,  chosen  from  mankind  to  superintend 
the  education  of  his  son  at  Raynham.  Adrian  had  been 
destined  for  the  Church.  He  did  not  enter  into  Orders. 
He  and  the  baronet  had  a  conference  together  one  day, 
and  from  that  time  Adrian  became  a  fixture  in  the  Abbey. 
His  father  died  in  his  promising  son's  college  term,  be- 
queathing him  nothing  but  his  legal  complexion,  and 
Adrian  became  stipendiary  officer  in  his  uncle's  house- 
hold. 

A  playfellow  of  Richard's  occasionally,  and  the  only 
comrade  of  his  age  that  he  ever  saw,  was  Master  Ripton 
Thompson,  the  son  of  Sir  Austin's  solicitor,  a  boy  without 
a  character. 

A  comrade  of  some  description  was  necessary,  for 
Richard  was  neither  to  go  to  school  nor  to  college.  Sir 
Austin  considered  that  the  schools  were  corrupt,  and 
maintained  that  young  lads  might  by  parental  vigilance 
be  kept  pretty  secure  from  the  Serpent  until  Eve  sided 
with  him:  a  period  that  might  be  deferred,  he  said.  He 
had  a  system  of  education  for  his  son.  How  it  worked  we 
shall  see. 


THE  FOURTEENTH  BIRTHDAY  9 


CHAPTER  II 

SHOWING  HOW  THE  FATES  SELECTED  THE  FOUR- 
TEENTH BIRTHDAY  TO  TRY  THE  STRENGTH  OF 
THE    SYSTEM 

October  shone  royally  on  Richard's  fourteenth  birthday. 
The  brown  beechwoods  and  golden  birches  glowed  to  a 
brilliant  sun.  Banks  of  moveless  cloud  hung  about  the 
horizon,  mounded  to  the  west,  where  slept  the  wind. 
Promise  of  a  great  day  for  Raynham,  as  it  proved  to  be, 
though  not  in  the  manner  marked  out. 

Already  archery-booths  and  cricketing-tents  were  rising 
on  the  lower  grounds  towards  the  river,  whither  the  lads 
of  Bursley  and  Lobourne,  in  boats  and  in  carts,  shouting 
for  a  day  of  ale  and  honour,  jogged  merrily  to  match 
themselves  anew,  and  pluck  at  the  living  laurel  from  each 
other's  brows,  like  manly  Britons.  The  whole  park  was 
beginning  to  be  astir  and  resound  with  holiday  cries. 
Sir  Austin  Feverel,  a  thorough  good  Tory,  was  no  game- 
preserver,  and  could  be  popular  whenever  he  chose,  which 
Sir  Miles  Papworth,  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  a 
fast-handed  Whig  and  terror  to  poachers,  never  could  be. 
Half  the  village  of  Lobourne  was  seen  trooping  through 
the  avenues  of  the  park.  Fiddlers  and  gipsies  clamoured 
at  the  gates  for  admission;  white  smocks,  and  slate,  sur- 
mounted by  hats  of  serious  brim,  and  now  and  then  a 
scarlet  cloak,  smacking  of  the  old  country,  dotted  the 
grassy  sweeps  to  the  levels. 

And  all  the  time  the  star  of  these  festivities  was  re- 
ceding further  and  further,  and  eclipsing  himself  with 
his  reluctant  serf  Ripton,  who  kept  asking  what  they  were 
to  do  and  where  they  were  going,  and  how  late  it  was  in 
the  day,  and  suggesting  that  the  lads  of  Lobourne  would 
be  calling  out  for  them,  and  Sir  Austin  requiring  their 
presence,  without  getting  any  attention  paid  to  his  misery 
or  remonstrances.  For  Richard  had  been  requested  by 
his  father  to  submit  to  medical  examination  like  a  boor 
enlisting  for  a  soldier,  and  he  was  in  great  wrath. 

He  was  flying  as  though  he  would  have  flown  from  the 


10       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

shameful  thought  of  what  had  been  asked  of  him.  By- 
and-by  he  communicated  his  sentiments  to  Ripton,  who 
said  they  were  those  of  a  girl :  an  offensive  remark,  re- 
membering which,  Richard,  after  they  had  borrowed  a 
couple  of  guns  at  the  bail  ill's  farm,  and  Ripton  had  fired 
badly,  called  his  friend  a  fool. 

Feeling  that  circumstances  were  making  him  look  won- 
derfully like  one,  Ripton  lifted  his  head  and  retorted 
defiantly,   "I'm  not!" 

This  angry  contradiction,  so  very  uncalled  for,  an- 
noyed Richard,  who  was  still  smarting  at  the  loss  of  the 
birds,  owing  to  Ripton's  bad  shot,  and  was  really  the  in- 
jured party.  He  therefore  bestowed  the  abusive  epithet 
on  Ripton  anew,  and  with  increase  of  emphasis. 

"You  shan't  call  me  so,  then,  whether  I  am  or  not," 
says  Ripton,  and  sucks  his  lips. 

This  was  becoming  personal.  Richard  sent  up  his 
brows,  and  stared  at  his  defier  an  instant.  He  then  in- 
formed him  that  he  certainly  should  call  him  so,  and 
would  not  object  to  call  him  so  twenty  times. 

"Do  it,  and  see!"  returns  Ripton,  rocking  on  his  feet, 
and  breathing  quick. 

With  a  gravity  of  which  only  boys  and  other  barbarians 
are  capable,  Richard  went  through  the  entire  number, 
stressing  the  epithet  to  increase  the  defiance  and  avoid 
monotony,  as  he  progressed,  while  Ripton  bobbed  his  head 
every  time  in  assent,  as  it  were,  to  his  comrade's  accuracy, 
and  as  a  record  for  his  profound  humiliation.  The  dog 
they  had  with  them  gazed  at  the  extraordinary  perform- 
ance with  interrogating  wags  of  the  tail. 

Twenty  times,  duly  and  deliberately,  Richard  repeated 
the  obnoxious  word. 

At  the  twentieth  solemn  iteration  of  Ripton's  capital 
shortcoming,  Ripton  delivered  a  smart  back-hander  on 
Richard's  mouth,  and  squared  precipitately ;  perhaps  sorry 
when  the  deed  was  done,  for  he  was  a  kind-hearted  lad, 
and  as  Richard  simply  bowed  in  acknowledgment  of  the 
blow  he  thought  he  had  gone  too  far.  He  did  not  know 
the  young  gentleman  he  was  dealing  with.  Richard  was 
extremely  cool. 

"Shall  we  fight  here?"  he  said. 

"Anywhere  you  like,"  replied  Ripton. 


THE  FOURTEENTH  BIRTHDAY      11 

"A  little  more  into  the  wood,  I  think.  We  may  be  in- 
terrupted." And  Richard  led  the  way  with  a  courteous 
reserve  that  somewhat  chilled  Ripton's  ardour  for  the 
contest.  On  the  skirts  of  the  wood,  Richard  threw  off  his 
jacket  and  waistcoat,  and,  quite  collected,  waited  for 
Ripton  to  do  the  same.  The  latter  boy  was  flushed  and 
restless;  older  and  broader,  but  not  so  tight-limbed  and 
well-set.  The  Gods,  sole  witnesses  of  their  battle,  betted 
dead  against  him.  Richard  had  mounted  the  white  cock- 
ade of  the  Feverels,  and  there  was  a  look  in  him  that 
asked  for  tough  work  to  extinguish.  His  brows,  slightly 
lined  upward  at  the  temples,  converging  to  a  knot  about 
the  well-set  straight  nose;  his  full  grey  eyes,  open  nostrils, 
and  planted  feet,  and  a  gentlemanly  air  of  calm  and  alert- 
ness, formed  a  spirited  picture  of  a  young  combatant. 
As  for  Ripton,  he  was  all  abroad,  and  fought  in  school- 
boy style — that  is,  he  rushed  at  the  foe  head  foremost, 
and  struck  like  a  windmill.  He  was  a  lumpy  boy.  When 
he  did  hit,  he  made  himself  felt ;  but  he  was  at  the  mercy 
of  science.  To  see  him  come  dashing  in,  blinking  and 
puffing  and  whirling  his  arms  abroad  while  the  felling 
blow  went  straight  between  them,  you  perceived  that  he 
was  fighting  a  fight  of  desperation,  and  knew  it.  For  the 
dreaded  alternative  glared  him  in  the  "face  that,  if  he 
yielded,  he  must  look  like  what  he  had  been  twenty  times 
calumniously  called;  and  he  would  die  rather  than  yield, 
and  swing  his  windmill  till  he  dropped.  Poor  boy!  he 
dropped  frequently.  The  gallant  fellow  fought  for  ap- 
pearances, and  down  he  went.  The  Gods  favour  one  of 
two  parties.  Prince  Turnus  was  a  noble  youth ;  but  he  had 
not  Pallas  at  his  elbow.  Ripton  was  a  capital  boy;  he 
had  no  science.  He  could  not  prove  he  was  not  a  fool! 
When  one  comes  to  think  of  it,  Ripton  did  choose  the  only 
possible  way,  and  we  should  all  of  us  have  considerable 
difficulty  in  proving  the  negative  by  any  other.  _  Ripton 
came  on  the  unerring  fist  again  and  again ;  and  if  it  was 
true,  as  he  said  in  short  colloquial  gasps,  that  he  required 
as  much  beating  as  an  egg  to  be  beaten  thoroughly,  a 
fortunate  interruption  alone  saved  our  friend  from  re- 
sembling that  substance.  The  boys  heard  summoning 
voices,  and  beheld  Mr.  Morton  of  Poer  Hall  and  Austin 
Wentworth  stepping  towards  them. 


12       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

A  truce  was  sounded,  jackets  were  caught  up,  guns 
shouldered,  and  off  they  trotted  in  concert  through  the 
depths  of  the  wood,  not  stopping  till  that  and  half-a-dozen 
fields  and  a  larch  plantation  were  well  behind  them. 

When  they  halted  to  take  breath,  there  was  a  mutual 
study  of  faces.  Ripton's  was  much  discoloured,  and 
looked  fiercer  with  its  natural  war-paint  than  the  boy 
felt.  Nevertheless,  he  squared  up  dauntlessly  on  the  new 
ground,  and  Richard,  whose  wrath  was  appeased,  could 
not  refrain  from  asking  him  whether  he  had  not  really 
had  enough. 

"Never!"  shouts  the  noble  enemy. 

"Well,  look  here,"  said  Richard,  appealing  to  common 
sense,  "I'm  tired  of  knocking  you  down.  I'll  say  you're 
not  a  fool,  if  you'll  give  me  your  hand." 

Ripton  demurred  an  instant  to  consult  with  honour, 
who  bade  him  catch  at  his  chance. 

He  held  out  his  hand.  "There!"  and  the  boys  grasped 
hands  and  were  fast  friends.  Ripton  had  gained  his 
point,  and  Richard  decidedly  had  the  best  of  it.  So  they 
were  on  equal  ground.  Both  could  claim  a  victory,  which 
was  all  the  better  for  their  friendship. 

Ripton  washeoj  his  face  and  comforted  his  nose  at  a 
brook,  and  was  now  ready  to  follow  his  friend  wherever 
he  chose  to  lead.  They  continued  to  beat  about  for  birds. 
The  birds  on  the  Raynham  estates  were  found  singularly 
cunning,  and  repeatedly  eluded  the  aim  of  these  prime 
shots,  so  they  pushed  their  expedition  into  the  lands  of 
their  neighbours,  in  search  of  a  stupider  race,  happily 
oblivious  of  the  laws  and  conditions  of  trespass;  uncon- 
scious, too,  that  they  were  poaching  on  the  demesne  of 
the  notorious  Farmer  Blaize,  the  free-trade  farmer  under 
the  shield  of  the  Papworths,  no  worshipper  of  the  Griffin 
between  two  Wheatsheaves ;  destined  to  be  much  allied 
with  Richard's  fortunes  from  beginning  to  end.  Farmer 
Blaize  hated  poachers,  and  especially  young  chaps  poach- 
ing, who  did  it  mostly  from  impudence.  He  heard  the 
audacious  shots  popping  right  and  left,  and  going  forth 
to  have  a  glimpse  at  the  intruders,  and  observing  their 
size,  swore  he  would  teach  my  gentlemen  a  thing,  lords 
or  no  lords. 

Richard  had  brought  down   a  beautiful  cock-pheasant, 


THE  FOURTEENTH  BIRTHDAY      13 

and  was  exulting  over  it,  when  the  farmer's  portentous 
figure  burst  upon  them,  cracking  an  avenging  horsewhip. 
His  salute  was  ironical. 

"Havin'  good  sport,  gentlemen,  are  ye?" 

"Just  bagged  a  splendid  bird!"  radiant  Richard  in- 
formed him. 

"Oh!"  Farmer  Blaize  gave  an  admonitory  flick  of  the 
whip. 

"Just  let  me  clap  eye  on't,  then." 

"Say,  please,"  interposed  Ripton,  who  was  not  blind  to 
doubtful  aspects. 

Farmer  Blaize  threw  up  his  chin,  and  grinned  grimly. 

"Please  to  you,  sir?  Why,  my  chap,  you  looks  as  if  ye 
didn't  much  mind  what  come  t'yer  nose,  I  reckon.  You 
looks  an  old  poacher,  you  do.  Tall  ye  what  'tis!"  He 
changed  bis  banter  to  business,  "That  bird's  mine!  Now 
you  jest  hand  him  over,  and  sheer  off,  you  dam  young 
scoundrels!  I  know  ye!"  And  he  became  exceedingly 
opprobrious,  and  uttered  contempt  of  the  name  of  Feverel. 

Richard  opened  his  eyes. 

"If  you  wants  to  be  horsewhipped,  you'll  stay  where 
y'are!"  continued  the  farmer.  "Giles  Blaize  never  stands 
nonsense !" 

"Then  we'll  stay,"  quoth  Richard. 

"Good!  so  be't!     If  you  will  have't,  have't,  my  men!" 

As  a  preparatory  measure,  Farmer  Blaize  seized  a  wing 
of  the  bird,  on  which  both  boys  flung  themselves  desper- 
ately, and  secured  it  minus  the  pinion. 

"That's  your  game,"  cried  the  farmer.  "Here's  a  taste 
of  horsewhip  for  ye.  I  never  stands  nonsense!"  and 
sweetch  went  the  mighty  whip,  well  swayed.  The  boys 
tried  to  close  with  him.  He  kept  his  distance  and  lashed 
without  mercy.  Black  blood  was  made  by  Farmer  Blaize 
that  day!  The  boys  wriggled,  in  spite  of  themselves. _  It 
was  like  a  relentless  serpent  coiling,  and  biting,  and  sting- 
ing their  young  veins  to  madness.  Probably  they  felt  the 
disgrace  of  the  contortions  they  were  made  to  go  through 
more  than  the  pain,  but  the  pain  was  fierce,  for  the  farmer 
laid  about  from  a  practised  arm,  and  did  not  consider 
that  he  had  done  enough  till  he  was  well  breathed  and  his 
ruddy  jowl  inflamed.  He  paused,  to  receive  the  remainder 
of  the  cock-pheasant  in  his  face. 


14       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"Take  your  beastly  bird,"  cried  Richard. 

"Money,  my  lads,  and  interest,"  roared  the  farmer, 
lashing  out  again. 

Shameful  as  it  was  to  retreat,  there  was  but  that 
course  open  to  them.  They  decided  to  surrender  the 
field. 

"Look!  you  big  brute,"  Richard  shook  his  gun,  hoarse 
with  passion,  "I'd  have  shot  you,  if  I'd  been  loaded. 
Mind !  if  I  come  across  you  when  I'm  loaded,  you  coward, 
I'll  fire!" 

The  un-English  nature  of  this  threat  exasperated 
Farmer  Blaize,  and  he  pressed  the  pursuit  in  time  to  be- 
stow a  few  farewell  stripes  as  they  were  escaping  tight- 
breeched  into  neutral  territory.  At  the  hedge  they  par- 
leyed a  minute,  the  farmer  to  inquire  if  they  had  had  a 
mortal  good  tanning  and  were  satisfied,  for  when  they 
wanted  a  further  instalment  of  the  same  they  were  to 
come  for  it  to  Belthorpe  Farm,  and  there  it  was  in  pickle: 
The  boys  meantime  exploding  in  menaces  and  threats  of 
vengeance,  on  which  the  farmer  contemptuously  turned 
his  back.  Ripton  had  already  stocked  an  armful  of  flints 
for  the  enjoyment  of  a  little  skirmishing.  Richard,  how- 
ever, knocked  them  all  out,  saying,  "No !  Gentlemen  don't 
fling  stones;  leave  that  to  the  blackguards." 

"Just  one  shy  at  him!"  pleaded  Ripton,  with  his  eye 
on  Farmer  Blaize's  broad  mark,  and  his  whole  mind 
drunken  with  a  sudden  revelation  of  the  advantages  of 
light  troops  in  opposition  to  heavies. 

"No,"  said  Richard,  imperatively,  "no  stones,"  and 
marched  briskly  away.  Ripton  followed  with  a  sigh.  His 
leader's  magnanimity  was  wholly  beyond  him.  A  good 
spanking  mark  at  the  farmer  would  have  relieved  Master 
Ripton;  it  would  have  done  nothing  to  console  Richard 
Feverel  for  the  ignominy  he  had  been  compelled  to  submit 
to.  Ripton  was  familiar  with  the  rod,  a  monster  much 
despoiled  of  his  terrors  by  intimacy.  Birch-fever  was 
past  with  this  boy.  The  horrible  sense  of  shame,  self- 
loathing,  universal  hatred,  impotent  vengeance,  as  if  the 
spirit  were  steeped  in  abysmal  blackness,  which  comes 
upon  a  courageous  and  sensitive  youth  condemned  for  the 
first  time  to  taste  this  piece  of  fleshly  bitterness,  and 
suffer  what  he  feels  is  a  defilement,  Ripton  had  weathered 


THE  FOURTEENTH  BIRTHDAY      15 

and  forgotten.  He  was  seasoned  wood,  and  took  the  world 
pretty  wisely;  not  reckless  of  castigation,  as  some  boys 
become,  nor  oversensitive  as  to  dishonour,  as  his  friend 
and  comrade  beside  him  was. 

Richard's  blood  was  poisoned.  He  had  the  fever  on 
him  severely.  He  would  not  allow  stone-flinging,  because 
it  was  a  habit  of  his  to  discountenance  it.  Mere  gentle- 
manly considerations  had  scarce  shielded  Farmer  Blaize, 
and  certain  very  ungentlemanly  schemes  were  coming  to 
ghastly  heads  in  the  tumult  of  his  brain;  rejected  solely 
from  their  glaring  impracticability  even  to  his  young 
intelligence.  A  sweeping  and  consummate  vengeance  for 
the  indignity  alone  should  satisfy  him.  Something  tre- 
mendous must  be  done,  and  done  without  delay.  At  one 
moment  he  thought  of  killing  all  the  farmer's  cattle ;  next 
of  killing  him ;  challenging  him  to  single  combat  with  the 
arms,  and  according  to  the  fashion  of  gentlemen.  But 
the  farmer  was  a  coward;  he  would  refuse.  Then  he, 
Richard  Feverel,  would  stand  by  the  farmer's  bedside,  and 
rouse  him ;  rouse  him  to  fight  with  powder  and  ball  in  his 
own  chamber,  in  the  cowardly  midnight,  where  he  might 
tremble,  but  dare  not  refuse. 

"Lord!"  cried  simple  Ripton,  while  these  hopeful  plots 
were  raging  in  his  comrade's  brain,  now  sparkling  for  im- 
mediate execution,  and  anon  lapsing  disdainfully  dark  in 
their  chances  of  fulfilment,  "how  I  wish  you'd  have  let 
me  notch  him,  Ricky !  I'm  a  safe  shot.  I  never  miss.  I 
should  feel  quite  jolly  if  I'd  spanked  him  once.  We  should 
have  had  the  best  of  him  at  that  game.  I  say!"  and  a 
sharp  thought  drew  Ripton's  ideas  nearer  home,  "I  wonder 
whether  my  nose  is  as  bad  as  he  says!  Where  can  I  see 
myself?" 

To  these  exclamations  Richard  was  deaf,  and  he  trudged 
steadily  forward,  facing  but  one  object. 

After  tearing  through  innumerable  hedges,  leaping 
fences,  jumping  dykes,  penetrating  brambly  copses,  and 
getting  dirty,  ragged,  and  tired,  Ripton  awoke  from  his 
dream  of  Farmer  Blaize  and  a  blue  nose  to  the  vivid 
consciousness  of  hunger;  and  this  grew  with  the  rapidity 
of  light  upon  him,  till  in  the  course  of  another  minute  he 
was  enduring  the  extremes  of  famine,  and  ventured  to 
question  his  leader  whither  he    was    being    conducted. 


16       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

Raynham  was  out  of  sight.  They  were  a  long  way  down 
the  valley,  miles  from  Lobourne,  in  a  country  of  sour 
pools,  yellow  brooks,  rank  pasturage,  desolate  heath.  Soli- 
tary cows  were  seen ;  the  smoke  of  a  mud  cottage ;  a  cart 
piled  with  peat;  a  donkey  grazing  at  leisure,  oblivious  of 
an  unkind  world ;  geese  by  a  horse-pond,  gabbling  as  in 
the  first  loneliness  of  creation ;  uncooked  things  that  a 
famishing  boy  cannot  possibly  care  for,  and  must  despise. 
Ripton  was  in  despair. 

"Where  are  you  going  to?"  he  inquired  with  a  voice  of 
the  last  time  of  asking,  and  halted  resolutely. 

Richard  now  broke  his  silence  to  reply,  "Anywhere." 

"Anywhere!"  Ripton  took  up  the  moody  word.  "But 
ain't  you  awfully  hungry?"  he  gasped  vehemently,  in  a 
way  that  showed  the  total  emptiness  of  his  stomach, 

"No,"  was  Richard's  brief  response. 

"Not  hungry!"  Ripton's  amazement  lent  him  increased 
vehemence.  "Why,  you  haven't  had  anything  to  eat  since 
breakfast!  Not  hungry?  I  declare  I'm  starving.  I  feel 
such  a  gnawing  I  could  eat  dry  bread  and  cheese!" 

Richard  sneered :  not  for  reasons  that  would  have 
actuated  a  similar  demonstration  of  the  philosopher. 

"Come,"  cried  Ripton,  "at  all  events,  tell  us  where 
you're  going  to  stop." 

Richard  faced  about  to  make  a  querulous  retort.  The 
injured  and  hapless  visage  that  met  his  eye  disarmed  him. 
The  lad's  nose,  though  not  exactly  of  the  dreaded  hue, 
was  really  becoming  discoloured.  To  upbraid  him  would 
be  cruel.  Richard  lifted  his  head,  surveyed  the  position, 
and  exclaiming  "Here!"  dropped  down  on  a  withered  bank, 
leaving  Ripton  to  contemplate  him  as  a  puzzle  whose  every 
new  move  was  a  worse  perplexity. 


CHAPTER    III 
THE  MAGI  AN  CONFLICT 

Among  boys  there  are  laws  of  honour  and  chivalrous 
codes,  not  written  or  formally  taught,  but  intuitively 
understood  by  all,  and  invariably  acted  upon  by  the  loyal 


THE  MAGIAN  CONFLICT  17 

and  the  true.  The  race  is  not  nearly  civilized,  we  must 
remember.  Thus,  not  to  follow  your  leader  whithersoever 
he  may  think  proper  to  lead;  to  back  out  of  an  expedition 
because  the  end  of  it  frowns  dubious,  and  the  present 
fruit  of  it  is  discomfort;  to  quit  a  comrade  on  the  road, 
and  return  home  without  him :  these  are  tricks  which  no 
boy  of  spirit  would  be  guilty  of,  let  him  come  to  any  de- 
scription of  mortal  grief  in  consequence.  Better  so  than 
have  his  own  conscience  denouncing  him  sneak.  Some 
boys  who  behave  boldly  enough  are  not  troubled  by  this 
conscience,  and  the  eyes  and  the  lips  of  their  fellows 
have  to  supply  the  deficiency.  They  do  it  with  just  as 
haunting,  and  even  more  horrible  pertinacity,  than  the 
inner  voice,  and  the  result,  if  the  probation  be  not  very 
severe  and  searching,  is  the  same.  The  leader  can  rely  on 
the  faithfulness  of  his  host :  the  comrade  is  sworn  to  serve. 
Master  Ripton  Thompson  was  naturally  loyal.  The  idea 
of  turning  off  and  forsaking  his  friend  never  once  crossed 
his  mind,  though  his  condition  was  desperate,  and  his 
friend's  behaviour  that  of  a  Bedlamite.  He  announced 
several  times  impatiently  that  they  would  be  too  late  for 
dinner.  His  friend  did  not  budge.  Dinner  seemed  noth- 
ing to  him.  There  he  lay  plucking  grass,  and  patting  the 
old  dog's  nose,  as  if  incapable  of  conceiving  what  a  thing 
hunger  was.  Ripton  took  half-a-dozen  turns  up  and  down, 
and  at  last  flung  himself  down  beside  the  taciturn  boy, 
accepting  his  fate. 

Now,  the  chance  that  works  for  certain  purposes  sent  a 
smart  shower  from  the  sinking  sun,  and  the  wet  sent  two 
strangers  for  shelter  in  the  lane  behind  the  hedge  where 
the  boys  reclined.  One  was  a  travelling  tinker,  who  lit  a 
pipe  and  spread  a  tawny  umbrella.  The  other  was  a  burly 
young  countryman,  pipeless  and  tentless.  They  saluted 
with  a  nod,  and  began  recounting  for  each  other's  benefit 
the  day-long  doings  of  the  weather,  as  it  had  affected  their 
individual  experience  and  followed  their  prophecies.  Both 
had  anticipated  and  foretold  a  bit  of  rain  before  night, 
and  therefore  both  welcomed  the  wet  with  satisfaction. 
A  monotonous  betweenwhiles  kind  of  talk  they  kept  dron- 
ing, in  harmony  with  the  still  hum  of  the  air.  From  the 
weather  theme  they  fell  upon  the  blessings  of  tobacco; 
how  it  was  the  poor  man's  friend,  his  company,  his  con- 


18       THE  OKDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

solation,  his  comfort,  his  refuge  at  night,  his  first  thought 
in  the  morning. 

"Better  than  a  wife!"  chuckled  the  tinker.  "No  cur- 
tain-lecturin'  with  a  pipe.    Your  pipe  an't  a  shrew." 

"That  be  it!"  the  other  chimed  in.  "Your  pipe  doan't 
mak'  ye  out  wi'  all  the  cash  Saturday  evenin'." 

"Take  one,"  said  the  tinker,  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
moment,  handing  a  grimy  short  clay.  Speed-the-Plough 
tilled  from  the  tinker's  pouch,  and  continued  his  praises. 

"Penny  a  day,  and  there  y'are,  primed!  Better  than  a 
wife?    Ha,  ha!" 

"And  you  can  get  rid  of  it,  if  ye  wants  for  to,  and  when 
ye  wants,"  added  tinker. 

"So  ye  can!"  Speed-the-Plough  took  him  up.  "And  ye 
doan't  want  for  to.    Leastways,  t'other  case.    I  means  pipe." 

"And,"  continued  tinker,  comprehending  him  perfectly, 
"it  don't  bring  repentance  after  it." 

"Not  nohow,  master,  it  doan't!  And" — Speed-the- 
Plough  cocked  his  eye — "it  doan't  eat  up  half  the  victuals, 
your  pipe  doan't." 

Here  the  honest  yeoman  gesticulated  his  keen  sense  of 
a  clincher,  which  the  tinker  acknowledged;  and  having, 
so  to  speak,  sealed  up  the  subject  by  saying  the  best  thing 
that  could  be  said,  the  two  smoked  for  some  time  in  silence 
to  the  drip  and  patter  of  the  shower. 

Ripton  solaced  his  wretchedness  by  watching  them 
through  the  briar  hedge.  He  saw  the  tinker  stroking  a 
white  cat,  and  appealing  to  her,  every  now  and  then,  as 
his  missus,  for  an  opinion  or  a  confirmation;  and  he 
thought  that  a  curious  sight.  Speed-the-Plough  was 
stretched  at  full  length,  with  his  boots  in  the  rain,  and  his 
head  amidst  the  tinker's  pots,  smoking,  profoundly  con- 
templative. The  minutes  seemed  to  be  taken  up  alter- 
nately by  the  grey  puffs  from  their  mouths. 

It  was  the  tinker  who  renewed  the  colloquy.  Said  he, 
"Times  is  bad!" 

His  companion  assented,  "Sure-ly!" 

"But  it  somehow  comes  round  right,"  resumed  the 
tinker.  "Why,  look  here.  Where's  the  good  o'  moping? 
I  sees  it  all  come  round  right  and  tight.  Now  I  travels 
about.  I've  got  my  beat.  'Casion  calls  me  t'other  day 
to  Newcastle !— Eh  ?" 


THE  MAGIAN  CONFLICT  19 

"Coals!"  ejaculated  Speed-the-Plough  sonorously. 

"Coals !"  echoed  the  tinker.  "You  ask  what  I  goes  there 
for,  mayhap  ?  Never  you  mind.  One  sees  a  mort  o'  life 
in  my  trade.  Not  for  coals  it  isn't.  And  I  don't  carry 
'em  there,  neither.  Anyhow,  I  comes  back.  London's  my 
mark.  Says  I,  I'll  see  a  bit  o'  the  sea,  and  steps  aboard 
a  collier.    We  were  as  nigh  wrecked  as  the  prophet  Paul." 

" — A — who's  him?"  the  other  wished  to  know. 

"Read  your  Bible,"  said  the  tinker.  "We  pitched  and 
tossed — 'tain't  that  game  at  sea  'tis  on  land,  I  can  tell 
ye !  I  thinks,  down  we're  a-going — say  your  prayers,  Bob 
Tiles!  That  was  a  night,  to  be  sure!  But  God's  above 
the  devil,  and  here  I  am,  ye  see." 

Speed-the-Plough  lurched  round  on  his  elbow  and  re- 
garded him  indifferently.  "D'ye  call  that  doctrin'  ?  He 
bean't  al'ays,  or  I  shoo'n't  be  scrapin'  my  heels  wi'  nothia' 
to  do,  and,  what's  warse,  nothin'  to  eat.  Why,  look  hce*. 
Luck's  luck,  and  bad  luck's  the  contrary.  Varmer  Bol- 
lop,  t'other  day,  has's  rick  burnt  down.  Next  night  his 
gran'ry's  burnt.  What  do  he  tak'  and  go  and  do?  He 
takes  and  goes  and  hangs  unsel',  and  turns,  us  out  of  his 
employ.  God  warn't  above  the  devil  then,  I  thinks,  or 
I  can't  make  out  the  reckonin'." 

The  tinker  cleared  his  throat,  and  said  it  was  a  bad 
case. 

"And  a  darn'd  bad  case.  I'll  tak'  my  oath  on't !"  cried 
Speed-the-Plough.  "Well,  look  heer!  Heers  another 
darn'd  bad  case.  I  threshed  for  Varmer  Blaize — Blaize 
o'  Beltharpe — afore  I  goes  to  Varmer  Bollop.  Varmer 
Blaize  misses  pilkins.  He  swears  our  chaps  steals  pilkins. 
'Twarn't  me  steals  'em.  What  do  he  tak'  and  go  and  do? 
He  takes  and  tarns  us  off,  me  and  another,  neck  and  crop, 
to  scuffle  about  and  starve,  for  all  he  keers.  God  warn't 
above  the  devil  then,  I  thinks.    Not  nohow,  as  I  can  see !" 

The  tinker  shook  his  head,  and  said  that  was  a  bad  case 
also. 

"And  you  can't  mend  it,"  added  Speed-the-Plough. 
"It's  bad,  and  there  it  be.  But  I'll  tell  ye  what,  master. 
Bad  wants  payin'  for."  He  nodded  and  winked  myste- 
riously. "Bad  has  its  wages  as  well's  honest  work,  I'm 
thinkin'.  Varmer  Bollop  I  don't  owe  no  grudge  to: 
Varmer  Blaize  I  do.    And  I  shud  like  to  stick  a  Lucifer 


20       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

in  his  rick  some  dry  windy  night."  Speed-the-Plough 
screwed  up  an  eye  villainously.  "He  wants  hittin'  in  the 
wind, — jest  where  the  pocket  is,  master,  do  Varmer  Blaize, 
and  he'll  cry  out  'O  Lor'!'  Varmer  Blaize  will.  You  won't 
get  the  better  o'  Varmer  Blaize  by  no  means,  as  I  makes 
out,  if  ye  doan't  hit  into  him  jest  there." 

The  tinker  sent  a  rapid  succession  of  white  clouds  from 
his  mouth,  and  said  that  would  be  taking  the  devil's  side 
of  a  bad  case.  Speed-the-Plough  observed  energetically 
that,  if  Farmer  Blaize  was  on  the  other,  he  should  be  on 
that  side. 

There  was  a  young  gentleman  close  by,  who  thought 
with  him.  The  hope  of  Raynham  had  lent  a  careless  half- 
compelled  attention  to  the  foregoing  dialogue,  wherein  a 
common  labourer  and  a  travelling  tinker  had  propounded 
and  discussed  one  of  the  most  ancient  theories  of  trans- 
mundane  dominion  and  influence  on  mundane  affairs.  He 
now  started  to  his  feet,  and  came  tearing  through  the 
briar  hedge,  calling  out  for  one  of  them  to  direct  them 
the  nearest  road  to  Bursley.  The  tinker  was  kindling  prep- 
arations for  his  tea,  under  the  tawny  umbrella.  A  loaf 
was  set  forth,  on  which  Ripton's  eyes,  stuck  in  the  hedge, 
fastened  ravenously.  Speed-the-Plough  volunteered  in- 
formation that  Bursley  was  a  good  three  mile  from 
where  they  stood,  and  a  good  eight  mile  from  Lobourne. 

'TTi  give  you  half-a-crown  for  that  loaf,  my  good  fel- 
low," said  Richard  to  the  tinker. 

"It's  a  bargain,"  quoth  the  tinker,  "eh,  missus?" 

His  cat  replied  by  humping  her  back  at  the  dog. 

The  half-crown  was  tossed  down,  and  Ripton,  who  had 
just  succeeded  in  freeing  his  limbs  from  the  briar,  prickly 
as  a  hedgehog,  collared  the  loaf. 

"Those  young  squires  be  sharp-set,  and  no  mistake," 
said  the  tinker  to  his  companion.  "Come!  we'll  to  Burs- 
ley after  'em,  and  talk  it  out  over  a  pot  o'  beer."  Speed- 
the-Plough  was  nothing  loath,  and  in  a  short  time  they 
were  following  the  two  lads  on  the  road  to  Bursley,  while 
a  horizontal  blaze  shot  across  the  autumn  land  from  the 
Western  edge  of  the  rain-cloud. 


ARSON  21 


CHAPTER  IV 

ARSON 

Search  for  the  missing  hoys  had  been,  made  everywhere 
over  Raynham,  and  Sir  Austin  was  in  grievous  discon- 
tent. None  had  seen  them  save  Austin  Wentworth  and 
Mr.  Morton.  The  baronet  sat  construing  their  account  of 
the  flight  of  the  lads  when  they  were  hailed,  and  resolved 
it  into  an  act  of  rebellion  on  the  part  of  his  son.  At 
dinner  he  drank  the  young  heir's  health  in  ominous 
silence.  Adrian  Harley  stood  up  in  his  place  to  propose 
the  health.  His  speech  was  a  fine  piece  of  rhetoric.  He 
warmed  in  it  till,  after  the  Ciceronie  model,  inanimate 
objects  were  personified,  and  Richard's  table-napkin  and 
vacant  chair  were  invoked  to  follow  the  steps  of  a  peerless 
father,  and  uphold  with  his  dignity  the  honour  of  the 
Feverels.  Austin  Wentworth,  whom  a  soldier's  death  com- 
pelled to  take  his  father's  place  in  support  of  the  toast, 
was  tame  after  such  magniloquence.  But  the  reply,  the 
thanks  which  young  Richard  should  have  delivered  in  per- 
son were  not  forthcoming.  Adrian's  oratory  had  given  but 
a  momentary  life  to  napkin  and  chair.  The  company  of 
honoured  friends,  and  aunts,  and  uncles,  and  remotest 
cousins,  were  glad  to  disperse  and  seek  amusement  in 
music  and  tea.  Sir  Austin  did  his  utmost  to  be  hospita- 
bly cheerful,  and  requested  them  to  dance.  If  he  had  de- 
sired them  to  laugh  he  would  have  been  obeyed,  and  in 
as  hearty  a  manner. 

"How  triste!"  said  Mrs.  Doria  Forey  to  Lobourne's 
curate,  as  that  most  enamoured  automaton  went  through 
his  paces  beside  her  with  professional  stiffness. 

"One  who  does  not  suffer  can  hardly  assent,"  the  curate 
answered,  basking  in  her  beams. 

"Ah,  you  are  good !"  exclaimed  the  lady.  "Look  at  my 
Clare.  She  will  not  dance  on  her  cousin's  birthday  with 
any  one  but  him.  What  are  we  to  do  to  enliven  these 
people  ?" 

"Alas,  madam!  you  cannot  do  for  all  what  you  do  for 


22       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

one,"  the  curate  sighed,  and  wherever  she  wandered  in 
discourse,  drew  her  back  with  silken  strings  to  gaze  on 
his  enamoured  soul. 

He  was  the  only  gratified  stranger  present.    The  others 
had  designs  on  the  young  heir.     Lady  Attenbury  of  Long- 
ford House  had  brought  her  highly-polished  specimen  of 
marketware,  the  Lady  Juliana  J  aye,  for  a  first  introduc- 
tion to  him,  thinking  he  had  arrived  at  an  age  to  estimate 
and  pine  for  her  black  eyes  and  pretty  pert  mouth.     The 
Lady  Juliana  had  to  pair  off  with  a  dapper  Papworth, 
and  her  mama  was  subjected  to   the  gallantries   of   Sir 
Miles,  who  talked  land  and  steam-engines  to  her  till  she 
was  sick,  and  had  to  be  impertinent  in  self-defence.    Lady 
Blandish,  the  delightful  widow,  sat  apart  with   Adrian, 
and  enjoyed  his  sarcasms  on  the   company.     By  ten   at 
night  the  poor  show  ended,   and  the  rooms  were  dark, 
dark  as  the  prognostics  multitudinously  hinted  by  the  dis- 
appointed   and    chilled    gudsts    concerning    the    probable 
future  of  the  hope  of  Rayfiam.     Little  Ulare  kissed  her 
mama,  curtsied  to  the  lingering  curate,  and  went  to  bed 
like  a  very  good  girl.    Immediately  the  maid  had  departed, 
little  Clare  deliberately  exchanged  night  attire  for  that  of 
day.     She  was  noted  as  an  obedient  child.    Her  light  was 
always  allowed  to  burn  in  her  room  for  half-an-hour,  to 
counteract  her  fears  of  the  dark.     She  took  the  light,  and 
stole  on  tiptoe  to  Richard's  room.    No  Richard  was  there. 
She  peeped  in  further  and  further.     A  trifling  agitation 
of  the  curtains  shot  her  back  through  the  door  and  along 
the  passage  to  her  own  bedchamber  with  extreme  expe- 
dition.    She  was  not  much  alarmed,  but  feeling  guilty  she 
was  on  her  guard.    In  a  short  time  she  was  prowling  about 
the  passages  again.     Richard  had  slighted  and  offended 
the  little  lady,  and  was  to  be  asked  whether  he  did  not 
repent  such  conduct  toward  his  cousin;  not  to  be  asked 
whether  he  had  forgotten  to  receive  his  birthday  kiss  from 
her;   for,   if  he  did   not  choose  to   remember   that,   Miss 
Clare  would  never  remind  him  of  it,  and  to-night  should 
be  his  last  chance  of  a  reconciliation.    Thus  she  militated, 
sitting  on   a  stair,   and  presently   heard  Richard's  voice 
below  in  the  hall,  shouting  for  supper. 

"Master  Richard  has  returned,"  old  Benson  the  butler 
tolled  out  intelligence  to  Sir  Austin. 


ARSON  23 

"Well?"  said  the  baronet. 

"He  complains  of  being  hungry,"  the  butler  hesitated, 
with  a  look  of  solemn  disgust. 

"Let  him  eat." 

Heavy  Benson  hesitated  still  more  as  he  announced 
that  the  boy  had  called  for  wine.  It  was  an  unprecedented 
thing.  Sir  Austin's  brows  were  portending  an  arch,  but 
Adrian  suggested  that  he  wanted  possibly  to  drink  his 
birthday,  and  claret  was  conceded. 

The  boys  were  in  the  vortex  of  a  partridge-pie  when 
Adrian  strolled  in  to  them.  They  had  now  changed  char- 
acters. Richard  was  uproarious.  He  drank  a  health  with 
every  glass;  his  cheeks  were  flushed  and  his  eyes  brilliant. 
Ripton  looked  very  much  like  a  rogue  on  the  tremble  of 
detection,  but  his  honest  hunger  and  the  partridge-pie 
shielded  him  awhile  from  Adrian's  scrutinizing  glance. 
Adrian  saw  there  was  matter  for  study,  if  it  were  only 
on  Master  Ripton's  betraying  nose,  and  sat  down  to  hear 
and  mark. 

"Good  sport,  gentlemen,  I  trust  to  hear?"  he  began  his 
quiet  banter,  and  provoked  a  loud  peal  of  laughter  from 
Richard. 

"Ha,  ha!  I  say,  Rip:  'Havin'  good  sport,  gentlemen, 
are  ye?'  You  remember  the  farmer!  Your  health, 
parson!  We  haven't  had  our  sport  yet.  We're  going  to 
have  some  first-rate  sport.  Oh,  well!  we  haven't  much 
show  of  birds.  We  shot  for  pleasure,  and  returned  them 
to  the  proprietors.  You're  fond  of  game,  parson !  ^Ripton 
is  a  dead  shot  in  what  Cousin  Austin  calls  the  Kingdom 
of  'would-have-done'  and  'might-have-been.'  Up  went  the 
birds,  and  cries  Rip,  'I've  forgotten  to  load!'  Oh.  ho!— 
Rip !  some  more  claret — Do  just  leave  that  nose  of  yours 
alone.— Your  health,  Ripton  Thompson !  The  birds  hadn't 
the  decency  to  wait  for  him,  and  so,  parson,  it's  their 
fault,  and  not  Rip's,  you  haven't  a  dozen  brace  at  your 
feet.    What  have  you  been  doing  at  home,  Cousin  Rady  V 

"Playing  Hamlet,  in  the  absence  of  the  Prince  of  Den- 
mark. The  day  without  you,  my  dear  boy,  must  be  dull, 
you  know." 

"  'He  speaks:  can  I  trust  what  he  says  is  sincere? 

There's  an  edge  to  his  smile  that  cuts  much  like  a  sneer.' 


24       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

Sandoe's  poems !  You  know  the  couplet,  Mr.  Rady.  Why 
shouldn't  I  quote  Sandoe?  You  know  you  like  him,  Rady. 
But,  if  you've  missed  me,  I'm  sorry.  Rip  and  I  have  had 
a  beautiful  day.  We've  made  new  acquaintances.  We've 
seen  the  world.  I'm  the  monkey  that  has  seen  the  world, 
and  I'm  going  to  tell  you  all  about  it.  First,  there's  a 
gentleman  who  takes  a  rifle  for  a  fowling-piece.  Next, 
there's  a  farmer  who  warns  everybody,  gentleman  and 
beggar,  off  his  premises.  Next,  there's  a  tinker  and  a 
ploughman,  who  think  that  God  is  always  fighting  with 
the  devil  which  shall  command  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth. 
The  tinker's  for  God,  and  the  ploughman" 

"I'll  drink  your  health,  Ricky,"  said  Adrian,  interrupting. 

"Oh,  I  forgot,  parson ; — I  mean  no  harm,  Adrian.  I'm 
only  telling  what  I've  heard." 

"No  harm,  my  dear  boy,"  returned  Adrian.  "I'm  per- 
fectly  aware  that  Zoroaster  is  not  dead.  You  have  been 
listening  to  a  common  creed.  Drink  the  Fire-worshippers, 
if  you  will." 

"Here's  to  Zoroaster,  then!"  cried  Richard.  "I  say, 
Rippy!  we'll  drink  the  Fire-worshippers  to-night,  won't 
we?" 

A  fearful  conspiratorial  frown,  that  would  not  have  dis- 
graced Guido  Fawkes,  was  darted  back  from  the  plastic 
features  of  Master  Ripton. 

Richard  gave  his  lungs  loud  play. 

"Why,  what  did  you  say  about  Blaizes,  Rippy?  Didn't 
you  say  it  was  fun?" 

Another  hideous  and  silencing  frown  was  Ripton's 
answer.  Adrian  watched  the  innocent  youths,  and  knew 
that  there  was  talking  under  the  table.  "See,"  thought 
he,  "this  boy  has  tasted  his  first  scraggy  morsel  of  life 
to-day,  and  already  he  talks  like  an  old  stager,  and  has, 
if  I  mistake  not,  been  acting  too.  My  respected  chief," 
he  apostrophized  Sir  Austin,  "combustibles  are  only  the 
more  dangerous  for  compression.  This  boy  will  be  rav- 
enous for  Earth  when  he  is  let  loose,  and  very  soon  make 
his  share  of  it  look  as  foolish  as  yonder  game-pie!" — a 
prophecy  Adrian  kept  to  himself. 

Uncle  Algernon  shambled  in  to  see  his  nephew  before 
the  supper  was  finished,  and  his  more  genial  presence 
brought  out  a  little  of  the  plot. 


ARSON  25 

"Look  here,  uncle!"  said  Richard.  "Would  you  let  a 
churlish  old  brute  of  a  farmer  strike  you  without  making 
him  suffer  for  it?" 

"I  fancy  I  should  return  the  compliment,  my  lad,"  re- 
plied his  uncle. 

"Of  course  you  would!  So  would  I.  And  he  shall 
suffer  for  it."  The  boy  looked  savage,  and  his  uncle 
patted  him  down. 

"I've  boxed  his  son;  I'll  box  him,"  said  Richard,  shout- 
ing for  more  wine. 

"What,  boy !    Is  it  old  Blaize  has  been  putting  you  up  ?" 

"Never  mind,  uncle !"     The  boy  nodded  mysteriously. 

Look  there!  Adrian  read  on  Ripton's  face,  he  says 
"never  mind,"  and  lets  it  out! 

"Did  we  beat  to-day,  uncle  ?" 

"Yes,  boy;  and  we'd  beat  them  any  day  they  bowl  fair. 
I'd  beat  them  on  one  leg.  There's  only  Natkins  and 
Featherdene  among  them  worth  a  farthing." 

"We  beat !"  cries  Richard.  "Then  we'll  have  some  more 
wine,  and  drink  their  healths." 

The  bell  was  run;  wine  ordered.  Presently  comes  in 
heavy  Benson,  to  say  supplies  are  cut  off.  One  bottle, 
and  no  more.     The  Captain  whistled :  Adrian  shrugged. 

The  bottle,  however,  was  procured  by  Adrian  subse- 
quently.    He  liked  studying  intoxicated  urchins. 

One  subject  was  at  Richard's  heart,  about  which  he 
was  reserved  in  the  midst  of  his  riot.  Too  proud  to  in- 
quire how  his  father  had  taken  his  absence,  he  burned  to 
hear  whether  he  was  in  disgrace.  He  led  to  it  repeatedly, 
and  it  was  constantly  evaded  by  Algernon  and  Adrian. 
At  last,  when  the  boy  declared  a  desire  to  wish  his  father 
good-night,  Adrian  had  to  tell  him  that  he  was  to  go 
straight  to  bed  from  the  supper-table.  Young  Richard's 
face  fell  at  that,  and  his  gaiety  forsook  him.  He  marched 
to  his  room  without  another  word. 

Adrian  gave  Sir  Austin  an  able  version  of  his  son's 
behaviour  and  adventures;  dwelling  upon  this  sudden 
taciturnity  when  he  heard  of  his  father's  resolution  not 
to  see  him.  The  wise  youth  saw  that  his  chief  was  molli- 
fied behind  his  moveless  mask,  and  went  to  bed,  and 
Horace,  leaving  Sir  Austin  in  his  study.  Long  hours  the 
baronet  sat  alone.     The  house  had  not  its  usual  influx 


26   THE  ORDEAL  OF  El  CHARD  EEVEREL 

of  Feverels  that  day.  Austin  Wentworth  was  staying  at 
Poer  Hall,  and  had  only  come  over  for  an  hour.  At  mid- 
night the  house  breathed  sleep.  Sir  Austin  put  on  his 
cloak  and  cap,  and  took  the  lamp  to  make  his  rounds. 
He  apprehended  nothing  special,  but  with  a  mind  never 
at  rest  he  constituted  himself  the  sentinel  of  Raynham. 
He  passed  the  chamber  where  the  Great-Aunt  Grantley 
lay,  who  was  to  swell  Richard's  fortune,  and  so  perform 
her  chief  business  on  earth.  By  her  door  he  murmured, 
"Good  creature!  you  sleep  with  a  sense  of  duty  done," 
and  paced  on,  reflecting,  ''She  has  not  made  money  a 
demon  of  discord,"  and  blessed  her.  He  had  his  thoughts 
at  Hippias's  somnolent  door,  and  to  them  the  world  might 
have  subscribed. 

A  monomaniac  at  large,  watching  over  sane  people  in 
slumber!  thinks  Adrian  Harley,  as  he  hears  Sir  Austin's 
footfall,  and  truly  that  was  a  strange  object  to  see. — 
Where  is  the  fortress  that  has  not  one  weak  gate?  where 
the  man  who  is  sound  at  each  particular  angle?  Ay, 
meditates  the  recumbent  cynic,  more  or  less  mad  is  not 
every  mother's  son  ?  Favourable  circumstances — good  air, 
good  company,  two  or  three  good  rules  rigidly  adhered 
to — keep  the  world  out  of  Bedlam.  But,  let  the  world  fly 
into  a  passion,  and  is  not  Bedlam  the  safest  abode  for  it  ? 

Sir  Austin  ascended  the  stairs,  and  bent  his  steps  lei- 
surely toward  the  chamber  where  his  son  was  lying  in  the 
left  wing  of  the  Abbey.  At  the  end  of  the  gallery  which  led 
to  it  he  discovered  a  dim  light.  Doubting  it  an  illusion, 
Sir  Austin  accelerated  his  pace.  This  wing  had  aforetime 
a  bad  character.  Notwithstanding  what  .years  had  done  to 
polish  it  into  fair  repute,  the  Raynham  kitchen  stuck  to 
tradition,  and  preserved  certain  stories  of  ghosts  seen 
there,  that  effectually  blackened  it  in  the  susceptible  minds 
of  new  housemaids  and  under-cooks,  whose  fears  would 
not  allow  the  sinner  to  wash  his  sins.  Sir  Austin  had 
heard  of  the  tales  circulated  by  his  domestics  under- 
ground. He  cherished  his  own  belief,  but  discouraged 
theirs,  and  it  was  treason  at  Raynham  to  be  caught 
traducing  the  left  wing.  As  the  baronet  advanced,  the 
fact  of  a  light  burning  was  clear  to  him.  A  slight  descent 
brought  him  into  the  passage,  and  he  beheld  a  poor  human 
candle  standing  outside  his  son's  chamber.     At  the  same 


ARSON  27 

moment  a  door  closed  hastily.  He  entered  Richard's 
room.  The  boy  was  absent.  The  bed  was  unpressed:  no 
clothes  about :  nothing  to  show  that  he  had  been  there  that 
night.  Sir  Austin  felt  vaguely  apprehensive.  Has  he 
gone  to  my  room  to  await  me  ?  thought  the  father's  heart. 
Something  like  a  tear  quivered  in  his  arid  eyes  as  he 
meditated  and  hoped  this  might  be  so.  His  own  sleeping- 
room  faced  that  of  his  son.  He  strode  to  it  with  a  quick 
heart.  It  was  empty.  Alarm  dislodged  anger  from  his 
jealous  heart,  and  dread  of  evil  put  a  thousand  questions 
to  him  that  were  answered  in  air.  After  pacing  up  and 
down  his  room  he  determined  to  go  and  ask  the  boy 
Thompson,  as  he  called  Ripton,  what  was  known  to  him. 

The  chamber  assigned  to  Master  Ripton  Thompson  was 
at  the  northern  extremity  of  the  passage,  and  overlooked 
Lobourne  and  the  valley  to  the  West.  The  bed  stood  be- 
tween the  window  and  the  door.  Sir  Austin  found  the 
door  ajar,  and  the  interior  dark.  To  his  surprise,  the 
boy  Thompson's  couch,  as  revealed  by  the  rays  of  his  lamp, 
was  likewise  vacant.  He  was  turning  back  when  he 
fancied  he  heard  the  sibilation  of  a  whispering  in  the 
room.  Sir  Austin  cloaked  the  lamp  and  trod  silently  to- 
ward the  window.  The  heads  of  his  son  Richard  and  the 
boy  Thompson  were  seen  crouched  against  the  glass, 
holding  excited  converse  together.  Sir  Austin  listened, 
but  he  listened  to  a  language  of  which  he  possessed  not 
the  key.  Their  talk  was  of  fire,  and  of  delay :  of  expected 
agrarian  astonishment :  of  a  farmer's  huge  wrath :  of  vio- 
lence exercised  upon  gentlemen,  and  of  vengeance:  talk 
that  the  boys  jerked  out  by  fits,  and  that  came  as  broken 
links  of  a  chain  impossible  to  connect.  But  they  awoke 
curiosity.  The  baronet  condescended  to  play  the  spy  upon 
his  son. 

Over  Lobourne  and  the  valley  lay  black  night  and  in- 
numerable stars. 

"How  jolly  I  feel!"  exclaimed  Ripton,  inspired  by 
claret;  and  then,  after  a  luxurious  pause— "I  think  that 
fellow  has  pocketed  his  guinea,  and  cut  his  lucky." 

Richard  allowed  a  long  minute  to  pass,  during  which 
the  baronet  waited  anxiously  for  his  voice,  hardly  rec- 
ognizing it  when  he  heard  its  altered  tones. 

"If  he  has,  I'll  go;  and  I'll  do  it  myself." 


28       THE  ORDEAL  OE  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"You  would?"  returned  Master  Ripton.  "Well,  I'm 
hanged ! — I  say,  if  you  went  to  school,  wouldn't  you  get 
into  rows!  Perhaps  he  hasn't  found  the  place  where  the 
box  was  stuck  in.  I  think  he  funks  it.  I  almost  wish  you 
hadn't  done  it,  upon  my  honour — eh?  Look  there!  what 
was  that ?  That  looked  like  something. — I  say!  do  you 
think  we  shall  ever  be  found  out?" 

Master  Ripton  intoned  this  abrupt  interrogation  very 
seriously. 

"I  don't  think  about  it,"  said  Richard,  all  his  faculties 
bent  on  signs  from  Lobourne. 

"Well,  but,"  Ripton  persisted,  "suppose  we  are  found 
out?" 

"If  we  are,  I  must  pay  for  it." 

Sir  Austin  breathed  the  better  for  this  reply.  He  was 
beginning  to  gather  a  clue  to  the  dialogue.  His  son  was 
engaged  in  a  plot,  and  was,  moreover,  the  leader  of  the 
plot.     He  listened  for  further  enlightenment. 

"What  was  the  fellow's  name?"  inquired  Ripton. 

His  companion  answered,  "Tom  Bakewell." 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  continued  Ripton.  "You  let  it  all 
clean  out  to  your  cousin  and  uncle  at  supper.  How  capital 
claret  is  with  partridge-pie!  What  a  lot  I  ate! — Didn't 
you  see  me  frown  ?" 

The  young  sensualist  was  in  an  ecstasy  of  gratitude  to 
his  late  refection,  and  the  slightest  word  recalled  him  to 
it.     Richard  answered  him — 

"Yes;  and  felt  your  kick.  It  doesn't  matter.  Rady's 
safe,  and  uncle  never  blabs." 

"Well,  my  plan  is  to  keep  it  close.  You're  never  safe  if 
you  don't. — I  never  drank  much  claret  before,"  Ripton 
was  off  again.  "Won't  I  now,  though!  claret's  my  wine. 
You  know,  it  may  come  out  any  day,  and  then  we're  done 
for,"  he  rather  incongruously  appended. 

Richard  only  took  up  the  business-thread  of  his  friend's 
rambling  chatter,  and  answered — 

"You've  got  nothing  to  do  with  it,  if  we  are." 

"Haven't  I,  though!  I  didn't  stick  in  the  box,  but  I'm 
an  accomplice,  that's  clear.  Besides,"  added  Ripton,  "do 
you  think  1  should  leave  you  to  bear  it  all  on  your 
shoulders?  I  ain't  that  sort  of  chap,  Ricky,  I  can  tell 
you." 


ARSON  29 

Sir  Austin  thought  more  highly  of  the  boy  Thompson. 
Still  it  looked  a  detestable  conspiracy,  and  the  altered 
manner  of  his  son  impressed  him  strangely.  He  was  not 
the  boy  of  yesterday.  To  Sir  Austin  it  seemed  as  if  a  gulf 
had  suddenly  opened  between  them.  The  boy  had  em- 
barked, and  was  on  the  waters  of  life  in  his  own  vessel. 
It  was  as  vain  to  call  him  back  as  to  attempt  to  erase 
what  Time  has  written  with  the  Judgment  Blood!  This 
child,  for  whom  he  had  prayed  nightly  in  such  a  fervour 
and  humbleness  to  God,  the  dangers  were  about  him,  the 
temptations  thick  on  him,  and  the  devil  on  board  piloting. 
If  a  day  had  done  so  much,  what  would  years  do?  Were 
prayers  and  all  the  watchfulness  he  had  expended  of  no 
avail  ? 

A  sensation  of  infinite  melancholy  overcame  the  poor 
gentleman — a  thought  that  he  was  fighting  with  a  fate  in 
this  beloved  boy. 

He  was  half  disposed  to  arrest  the  two  conspirators  on 
the  spot,  and  make  them  confess,  and  absolve  themselves; 
but  it  seemed  to  him  better  to  keep  an  unseen  eye  over 
his  son:  Sir  Austin's  old  system  prevailed. 

Adrian  characterized  this  system  well,  in  saying  that 
Sir  Austin  wished  to  be  Providence  to  his  son. 

If  immeasurable  love  were  perfect  wisdom,  one  human 
being  might  almost  impersonate  Providence  to  another. 
Alas !  love,  divine  as  it  is,  can  do  no  more  than  lighten 
the  house  it  inhabits — must  take  its  shape,  sometimes  in- 
tensify its  narrowness — can  spiritualize,  but  not  expel,  the 
old  life-long  lodgers  above-stairs  and  below. 

Sir  Austin  decided  to  continue  quiescent. 

The  valley  still  lay  black  beneath  the  large  autumnal 
stars,  and  the  exclamations  of  the  boys  were  becoming 
fevered  and  impatient.  By-and-by  one  insisted  that  he 
had  seen  a  twinkle.  The  direction  he  gave  was  out  of 
their  anticipations.  Again  the  twinkle  was  ^  announced. 
Both  boys  started  to  their  feet.  It  was  a  twinkle  in  the 
right  direction  now. 

"He's  done  it!"  cried  Richard,  in  great  heat.  "Now 
you  may  say  old  Blaize'll  soon  be  old  Blazes,  Rip.  I  hope 
he's  asleep." 

"I'm  sure  he's  snoring! — Look  there!  He's  alight  fast 
enough.     He's   dry.     He'll   burn.— I    say,"    Ripton   re-as- 


30       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

sumed  the  serious  intonation,  "do  you  think  they'll  ever 
suspect  us?" 

•What  if  they  do?     We  must  brunt  it." 

"Of  course  we  will.  But,  I  say!  I  wish  you  hadn't 
given  them  the  scent,  though.  I  like  to  look  innocent. 
I  can't  when  1  know  people  suspect  me.  Lord!  look  there! 
Isn't  it  just  beginning  to  flare  up!" 

The  farmer's  grounds  were  indeed  gradually  standing 
out  in  sombre  shadows. 

'•I'll  fetch  my  telescope,"  said  Richard.  Ripton,  some- 
how not  liking  to  be  left  alone,  caught  hold  of  him. 

•Xo;  don't  go  and  lose  the  best  of  it.  Here,  I'll  throw 
open  the  window,  and  we  can  see." 

The  window  was  flung  open,  and  the  boys  instantly 
stretched  half  their  bodies  out  of  it;  Ripton  appearing  to 
devour  the  rising  flames  with  his  mouth:  Richard  with 
his  eyes. 

Opaque  and  statuesque  stood  the  figure  of  the  baronet 
behind  them.  The  wind  was  low.  Dense  masses  of  smoke 
hung  amid  the  darting  snakes  of  fire,  and  a  red  malign 
light  was  on  the  neighbouring  leafage.  No  figures  could 
be  seen.  Apparently  the  flames  had  nothing  to  contend 
against,  for  they  were  making  terrible  strides  into  the 
darkness. 

"Oh!"  shouted  Richard,  overcome  by  excitement,  "if  I 
had  my  telescope!  We  must  have  it!  Let  me  go  and 
fetch  it!     I  will!" 

The  boys  struggled  together,  and  Sir  Austin  stepped 
back.  As  he  did  so,  a  cry  was  heard  in  the  passage.  He 
hurried  out,  closed  the  chamber,  and  came  upon  little 
Clare  lying  senseless  along  the  floor. 


CHAPTER   V 
ADRIAN  PLIES  HIS  HOOK 

In  the  morning  that  followed  this  night,  great  gossip 
was  interchanged  between  Raynham  and  Lobourne.  The 
village  told  how  Farmer  Blaize,  of  Belthorpe  Farm,  had 
his  rick  feloniously  set  fire  to;  his  stables  had  caught  fire, 


ADRIAN  PLIES  HIS  HOOK  31 

himself  had  been  all  but  roasted  alive  in  the  attempt  to 
rescue  his  cattle,  of  which  numbers  had  perished  in  the 
flames.  Raynham  counterbalanced  arson  with  an  authen- 
tic ghost  seen  by  Miss  Clare  in  the  left  wing  of  the 
Abbey — the  ghost  of  a  lady,  dressed  in  deep  mourning, 
a  scar  on  her  forehead,  and  a  bloody  handkerchief  at  her 
breast,  frightful  to  behold!  and  no  wonder  the  child  was 
frightened  out  of  her  wits,  and  lay  in  a  desperate  state 
awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  London  doctors.  It  was  added 
that  the  servants  had  all  threatened  to  leave  in  a  body, 
and  that  Sir  Austin  to  appease  them  had  promised  to  pull 
down  the  entire  left  wing,  like  a  gentleman ;  for  no  decent 
creature,  said  Lobourne,  could  consent  to  live  in  a  haunted 
house. 

Rumour  for  the  nonce  had  a  stronger  spice  of  truth  than 
usual.  Poor  little  Clare  lay  ill,  and  the  calamity  that  had 
befallen  Farmer  Blaize,  as  regards  his  rick,  was  not  much 
exaggerated.  Sir  Austin  caused  an  account  of  it  to  be 
given  him  at  breakfast,  and  appeared  so  scrupulously 
anxious  to  hear  the  exact  extent  of  injury  sustained  by 
the  farmer  that  heavy  Benson  went  down  to  inspect  the 
scene.  Mr.  Benson  returned,  and,  acting  under  Adrian's 
malicious  advice,  framed  a  formal  report  of  the  catas- 
trophe, in  which  the  farmer's  breeches  figured,  and  certain 
cooling  applications  to  a  part  of  the  farmer's  person. 
Sir  Austin  perused  it  without  a  smile.  He  took  occasion 
to  have  it  read  out  before  the  two  boys,  who  listened  very 
demurely,  as  to  an  ordinary  newspaper  incident;  only 
when  the  report  particularized  the  garments  damaged,  and 
the  unwonted  distressing  position  Farmer  Blaize  was  re- 
duced to  in  his  bed,  an  indecorous  fit  of  sneezing  laid 
hold  of  Master  Ripton  Thompson,  and  Richard  bit  his 
lip  and  burst  into  loud  laughter,  Ripton  joining  him,  lost 
to  consequences. 

"I  trust  you  feel  for  this  poor  man,"  said  Sir  Austin 
to  his  son,  somewhat  sternly.  He  saw  no  sign  of  feel- 
ing. 

It  was  a  difficult  task  for  Sir  Austin  to  keep  his  old 
countenance  toward  the  hope  of  Raynham,  knowing  him 
the  accomplice-incendiary,  and  believing  the  deed  to  have 
been  unprovoked  and  wanton.  But  he  must  do  so,  he 
knew,  to  let  the  boy  have  a  fair  trial   against  himself. 


32       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

Bo  it  said,  moreover,  that  the  baronet's  possession  of  his 
son's  seeret  flattered  him.  It  allowed  him  to  act,  and  in 
a  measure  to  feel,  like  Providence;  enabled  him  to  observe 
and  provide  for  the  movements  of  creatures  in  the  dark. 
He  therefore  treated  the  boy  as  he  commonly  did,  and 
Richard  saw  no  change  in  his  father  to  make  him  think 
he  was  suspected. 

The  youngster's  game  was  not  so  easy  against  Adrian. 
Adrian  did  not  shoot  or  Ash.  Voluntarily  he  did  nothing 
to  work  off  the  destructive  nervous  fluid,  or  whatever  it 
may  be,  which  is  in  man's  nature;  so  that  two  culprit 
boys  once  in  his  power  were  not  likely  to  taste  the  gentle 
hand  of  mercy,  and  Richard  and  Ripton  paid  for  many 
a  trout  and  partridge  spared.  At  every  minute  of  the  day 
Ripton  was  thrown  into  sweats  of  suspicion  that  discovery 
was  imminent,  by  some  stray  remark  or  message  from 
Adrian.  He  was  as  a  fish  with  the  hook  in  his  gills, 
mysteriously  caught  without  having  nibbled;  and  dive 
into  what  depths  he  would  he  was  sensible  of  a  sum- 
moning force  that  compelled  him  perpetually  towards  the 
gasping  surface,  which  he  seemed  inevitably  approaching 
when  the  dinner-bell  sounded.  There  the  talk  was  all  of 
Farmer  Blaize.  If  it  dropped,  Adrian  revived  it,  and  his 
caressing  way  with  Ripton  was  just  such  as  a  keen 
sportsman  feels  toward  the  creature  that  has  owned  his 
skill,  and  is  making  its  appearance  for  the  world  to 
acknowledge  the  same.  Sir  Austin  saw  the  manoeuvres, 
and  admired  Adrian's  shrewdness.  But  he  had  to  check 
the  young  natural  lawyer,  for  the  effect  of  so  much  masked 
examination  upon  Richard  was  growing  baneful.  This 
fish  also  felt  the  hook  in  his  gills,  but  this  fish  was  more 
of  a  pike,  and  lay  in  different  waters,  where  there  were 
old  stumps  and  black  roots  to  wind  about,  and  defy  alike 
strong  pulling  and  delicate  handling.  In  other  words, 
Richard  showed  symptoms  of  a  disposition  to  take  refuge 
in  lies. 

''You  know  the  grounds,  my  dear  boy,"  Adrian  observed 
to  him.  "Tell  me;  do  you  think  it  easy  to  get  to  the  rick 
unperceived?  I  hear  they  suspect  one  of  the  farmer's 
turned-ofl   hands." 

"I  tell  you  I  don't  know  the  grounds,"  RicharJ  sullenly 
replied. 


ADRIAN  PLIES  HIS  HOOK  33 

"Not  ?"  Adrian  counterfeited  courteous  astonishment. 
"I  thought  Mr.  Thompson  said  you  were  over  there  yes- 
terday?" 

Ripton,  glad  to  speak  a  truth,  hurriedly  assured  Adrian 
that  it  was  not  he  had  said  so. 

"Not?     You  had  good  sport,  gentlemen,  hadn't  you?" 

"Oh,  yes !"  mumbled  the  wretched  victims,  reddening  as 
they  remembered,  in  Adrian's  slightly  drawled  rusticity  of 
tone,  Farmer  Blaize's  first  address  to  them. 

"I  suppose  you  were  among  the  Fire-worshippers  last 
night,  too  ?"  persisted  Adrian.  "In  some  countries,  I  hear, 
they  manage  their  best  sport  at  night-time,  and  beat  up 
for  game  with  torches.  It  must  be  a  fine  sight.  After 
all,  the  country  would  be  dull  if  we  hadn't  a  rip  here 
and  there  to  treat  us  to  a  little  conflagration." 

"A  rip !"  laughed  Richard,  to  his  friend's  disgust  and 
alarm  at  his  daring.     "You  don't  mean  this  Rip,  do  you  ?" 

"Mr.  Thompson  fire  a  rick?  I  should  as  soon  suspect 
you,  my  dear  boy. — You  are  aware,  young  gentlemen,  that 
it  is  rather  a  serious  thing — eh?  In  this  country,  you 
know,  the  landlord  has  always  been  the  pet  of  the  Laws. 
By  the  way,"  Adrian  continued,  as  if  diverging  to  another 
topic,  "you  met  two  gentlemen  of  the  road  in  your  ex- 
plorations yesterday,  Magians.  Now,  if  I  were  a  magis- 
trate of  the  county,  like  Sir  Miles  Papworth,  my  suspicions 
would  light  upon  those  gentlemen.  A  tinker  and  a 
ploughman,  I  think  you  said,  Mr.  Thompson.  Not? 
Well,  say  two  ploughmen." 

"More  likely  two  tinkers,"  said  Richard. 

"Oh!  if  you  wish  to  exclude  the  ploughman — was  he 
out  of  employ?" 

Ripton,  with  Adrian's  eyes  inveterately  fixed  on  him, 
stammered  an  affirmative. 

"The  tinker,  or  the  ploughman?" 

"The  ploughm — "  Ingenuous  Ripton  looking  about,  as 
if  to  aid  himself  whenever  he  was  able  to  speak  the  truth, 
beheld  Richard's  face  blackening  at  him,  and  swallowed 
back  half  the  word. 

"The  ploughman !"  Adrian  took  him  up  cheerily.  "Then 
we  have  here  a  ploughman  out  of  employ.  Given  a  plough- 
man out  of  employ,  and  a  rick  burnt.  The  burning  of  a 
rick  is  an  act  of  vengeance,  and  a  ploughman  out  of  em- 


34        Till:  ORDEAL  OF   RICHARD   FEVEREL 

ploy  is  a  vengeful  animal.  Th<>  rick  and  the  ploughman 
are  advancing  to  a  juxtaposition.  Motive  being  estab- 
lished, we  have  only  to  prove  their  proximity  at  a  certain 
hour,  and  our  ploughman  voyages  beyond  seas." 

"Is  it  transportation  for  rick-burning?"  inquired  Ripton 
aghast. 

Adrian  spoke  solemnly:  "They  shave  your  head.  You 
are  manacled.  Your  diet  is  sour  bread  and  cheese-parings. 
You  work  in  strings  of  twenties  and  thirties.  Arson  is 
branded  on  your  backs  in  an  enormous  A.  Theological 
works  are  the  sole  literary  recreation  of  the  well-conducted 
and  deserving.  Consider  the  fate  of  this  poor  fellow,  and 
what  an  act  of  vengeance  brings  him  to!  Do  you  know 
his  name?" 

"How  should  I  know  his  name?"  said  Richard,  with  an 
assumption  of  innocence  painful  to  see. 

Sir  Austin  remarked  that  no  doubt  it  would  soon  be 
known,  and  Adrian  perceived  that  he  was  to  quiet  his 
line,  marvelling  a  little  at  the  baronet's  blindness  to 
what  was  so  clear.  He  would  not  tell,  for  that  would 
ruin  his  future  influence  with  Richard;  still  he  wanted 
some  present  credit  for  his  discernment  and  devotion. 
The  boys  got  away  from  dinner,  and,  after  deep  consulta- 
tion, agreed  upon  a  course  of  conduct,  which  was  to  com- 
miserate Farmer  Blaize  loudly,  and  make  themselves  look 
as  much  like  the  public  as  it  was  possible  for  two  young 
malefactors  to  look,  one  of  whom  already  felt  Adrian's 
enormous  A  devouring  his  back  with  the  fierceness  of  the 
Promethean  eagle,  and  isolating  him  for  ever  from  man- 
kind. Adrian  relished  their  novel  tactics  sharply,  and 
led  them  to  lengths  of  lamentation  for  Farmer  Blaize. 
Do  what  they  might,  the  hook  was  in  their  gills.  The 
farmer's  whip  had  reduced  them  to  bodily  contortions: 
these  were  decorous  compared  with  the  spiritual  writhings 
they  had  to  perform  under  Adrian's  manipulation.  Rip- 
ton  was  fast  becoming  a  coward,  and  Richard  a  liar,  when 
next  morning  Austin  Wentworth  came  over  from  Poer 
Hall  bringing  news  that  one  Mr.  Thomas  Bakewell,  yeo- 
man, had  been  arrested  on  suspicion  of  the  crime  of 
Arson  and  lodged  in  jail,  awaiting  the  magisterial  pleasure 
of  Sir  Miles  Papworth.  Austin's  eye  rested  on  Richard 
as  he  spoke  these  terrible  tidings.     The  hope  of  Raynham 


JUVENILE   STRATAGEMS  35 

returned  his  look,  perfectly  calm,  and  had,  moreover,  the 
presence  of  mind  not  to  look  at  Ripton. 


CHAPTER   VI 

JUVENILE    STRATAGEMS 

As  soon  as  they  could  escape,  the  hoys  got  away  together 
into  an  obscure  corner  of  the  park,  and  there  took  counsel 
of  their  extremity. 

"Whatever  shall  we  do  now?"  asked  Ripton  of  his 
leader. 

Scorpion  girt  with  fire  was  never  in  a  more  terrible 
prison-house  than  poor  Ripton,  around  whom  the  raging 
element  he  had  assisted  to  create  seemed  to  be  drawing 
momentary  narrower  circles. 

''There's  only  one  chance,"  said  Richard,  coming  to  a 
dead  halt,  and  folding  his  arms  resolutely. 

His  comrade  inquired  with  the  utmost  eagerness  what 
that  chance  might  be. 

Richard  fixed  his  eyes  on  a  flint,  and  replied :  "We  must 
rescue  that  fellow  from  jail." 

Ripton  gazed  at  his  leader,  and  fell  back  with  astonish- 
ment.    "My  dear  Ricky !  but  how  are  we  to  do  it  ?" 

Richard,  still  perusing  his  flint,  replied:  'We  must 
manage  to  get  a  file  in  to  him  and  a  rope.  It  can  be 
done,  I  tell  you.  I  don't  care  what  I  pay,  I  don't  care 
what  I  do.     He  must  be  got  out." 

"Bother  that  old  Blaize!"  exclaimed  Ripton,  taking  off 
his  cap  to  wipe  his  frenzied  forehead,  and  brought  down 
his  friend's  reproof. 

"Never  mind  old  Blaize  now.  Talk  about  letting  it 
out !  Look  at  you.  I'm  ashamed  of  you.  You  talk  about 
Robin  Hood  and  King  Richard!  Why,  you  haven't  an 
atom  of  courage.  Why,  you  let  it  out  every  second  of 
the  day.  Whenever  Rady  begins  speaking  you  start;  I 
can  see  the  perspiration  rolling  down  you.  Are  you 
afraid? — And  then  you  contradict  yourself.  You  never 
keep  to  one  story.  Now,  follow  me.  We  must  risk 
everything  to  get  him  out.     Mind  that!     And  keep  out 


36       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

of    Adrian's    way    as    muoh    as    you    can.      And    keep    to 
one  story." 

With  these  sage  directions  the  young  leader  marched 
his  companion-culprit  down  to  inspect  the  jail  where  Tom 
Bakewell  lay  groaning  over  the  results  of  the  super-mun- 
dane conflict,  and  the  victim  of  it  that  he  was. 

In  Lobourne  Austin  Went  worth  had  the  reputation  of 
the  poor  man's  friend;  a  title  he  earned  more  largely  ere 
he  went  to  the  reward  God  alone  can  give  to  that  supreme 
virtue.  Dame  Bakewell,  the  mother  of  Tom,  on  hearing 
of  her  son's  arrest,  had  run  to  comfort  him  and  render 
him  what  help  6he  could;  hut  this  was  only  sighs  and 
tears,  and,  oh  deary  me!  which  only  perplexed  poor  Tom, 
who  bade  her  leave  an  unlucky  chap  to  his  fate,  and  not 
make  himsolf  a  thundering  villain.  Whereat  the  dame 
begged  him  to  take  heart,  and  he  should  have  a  true  com- 
forter. "And  though,  it's  a  gentleman  that's  coming  to 
you,  Tom — for  he  never  refuses  a  poor  body,"  said  Mrs. 
Bakewell,  "it's  a  true  Christian,  Tom!  and  the  Lord  knows 
if  the  sight  of  him  mayn't  be  the  saving  of  you,  for  he's 
light  to  look  on,  and  a  sermon  to  listen  to,  he  is!" 

Tom  was  not  prepossessed  by  the  prospect  of  a  sermon, 
and  looked  a  sullen  dog  enough  when  Austin  entered  his 
cell.  He  was  surprised  at  the  end  of  half-an-hour  to  find 
himself  engaged  in  'man-to-man  conversation  with  a  gen- 
tleman and  a  Christian.  When  Austin  rose  to  go,  Tom 
begged  permission  to  shake  his  hand. 

"Take  and  tell  young  master  up  at  the  Abbey  that  I 
an't  the  chap  to  peach.  He'll  know.  He's  a  young  gentle- 
man as  '11  make  any  man  do  as  he  wants  'em!  He's  a 
mortal  wild  young  gentleman!  And  I'm  a  Ass!  That's 
where  'tis.  But  I  an't  a  blackguard.  Tell  him  that, 
sir!" 

This  was  how  it  came  that  Austin  eyed  young  Richard 
seriously  while  he  told  the  news  at  Raynham.  The  boy 
was  shy  of  Austin  more  than  of  Adrian.  Why,  he  did 
not  know ;  but  he  made  it  a  hard  task  for  Austin  to  catch 
him  alone,  and  turned  sulky  that  instant.  Austin  was  not 
clever  like  Adrian:  he  seldom  divined  other  people's  ideas, 
and  always  went  the  direct  road  to  his  object;  so  instead 
of  beating  about  and  setting  the  boy  on  the  alert  at  all 
points,  crammed  to   the  muzzle  with  lies,  he  just  said, 


JUVENILE   STRATAGEMS  37 

"Tom   Bakewell   told  me   to   let   you   know   he   does   not 
intend  to  peach  on  you,"  and  left  him. 

Richard  repeated  the  intelligence  to  Ripton,  who  cried 
aloud  that  Tom  was  a  brick. 

"He  shan't  suffer  for  it,"  said  Richard,  and  pondered 
on  a  thicker  rope  and  sharper  file. 

"But  will  your  cousin  tell?"  was  Ripton's  reflection. 

"He !"  Richard's  lip  expressed  contempt.  "A  plough- 
man refuses  to  peach,  and  you  ask  if  one  of  our  family 
will  ?" 

Ripton  stood  for  the  twentieth  time  reproved  on  this 
point. 

The  boys  had  examined  the  outer  walls  of  the  jail,  and 
arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  Tom's  escape  might  be  man- 
aged if  Tom  had  spirit,  and  the  rope  and  file  could  be 
anyway  reached  to  him.  But  to  do  this,  somebody  must 
gain  admittance  to  his  cell,  and  who  was  to  be  taken  into 
their  confidence? 

"Try  your  cousin,"  Ripton  suggested,  after  much  de- 
bate. 

Richard,  smiling,  wished  to  know  if  he  meant  Adrian. 

"No,  no !"  Ripton  hurriedly  reassured  him.     "Austin." 

The  same  idea  was  knocking  at  Richard's  head. 

"Let's  get  the  rope  and  file  first,"  said  he,  and  to  Bursley 
they  went  for  those  implements  to  defeat  the  law,  Ripton 
procuring  the  file  at  one  shop  and  Richard  the  rope  at 
another,  with  such  masterly  cunning  did  they  lay  their 
measures  for  the  avoidance  of  every  possible  chance  of  de- 
tection. And  better  to  assure  this,  in  a  wood  outside 
Bursley  Richard  stripped  to  his  shirt  and  wound  the  rope 
round  his  body,  tasting  the  tortures  of  anchorites  and 
penitential  friars,  that  nothing  should  be  risked  to  make 
Tom's  escape  a  certainty.  Sir  Austin  saw  the  marks  at 
night  as  his  son  lay  asleep,  through  the  half-opened  folds 
of  his  bed-gown. 

It  was  a  severe  stroke  when,  after  all  their  stratagems 
and  trouble,  Austin  Wentworth  refused  the  office  the  boys 
had  zealously  designed  for  him.  Time  pressed.  In  a  few 
days  poor  Tom  would  have  to  face  the  redoubtable  Sir 
Miles,  and  get  committed,  for  rumours  of  overwhelming 
evidence  to  convict  him  were  rife  about  Lobourne,  and 
Farmer    Blaize's    wrath    was    unappeasable.     Again    and 


38       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEEEL 

again  young  Richard  begged  his  cousin  not  to  sec  him 
disgraced,  and  to  help  him  in  this  extremity.  Austin 
smiled  on  him. 

"My  dear  Ricky,"  said  he,  "there  are  two  ways  of  get- 
ting out  of  a  scrape:  a  long  way  and  a  short  way.  When 
you've  tried  the  roundabout  method,  and  failed,  come  to 
me,  and  I'll  show  you  the  straight  route." 

Richard  was  too  entirely  bent  upon  the  roundabout 
method  to  consider  this  advice  more  than  empty  words, 
and  only  ground  his  teeth  at  Austin's  unkind  refusal. 

He  imparted  to  Ripton,  at  the  eleventh  hour,  that  they 
must  do  it  themselves,  to  which  Ripton  heavily  assented. 

On  the  day  preceding  poor  Tom's  doomed  appearance 
before  the  magistrate,  Dame  Bakewell  had  an  interview 
with  Austin,  who  went  to  Raynham  immediately,  and 
sought  Adrian's  counsel  upon  what  was  to  be  done. 
Homeric  laughter  and  nothing  else  could  be  got  out  of 
Adrian  when  he  heard  of  the  doings  of  these  desperate 
boys:  how  they  had  entered  Dame  Bakewell's  smallest  of 
retail  shops,  and  purchased  tea,  sugar,  candles,  and  com- 
fits of  every  description,  till  the  shop  was  clear  of  cus- 
tomers: how  they  had  then  hurried  her  into  her  little 
back-parlour,  where  Richard  had  torn  open  his  shirt  and 
revealed  the  coils  of  rope,  and  Ripton  displayed  the  point 
of  a  file  from  a  serpentine  recess  in  his  jacket:  how  they 
had  then  told  the  astonished  woman  that  the  rope  she  saw 
and  the  file  she  saw  were  instruments  for  the  liberation 
of  her  son ;  that  there  existed  no  other  means  on  earth 
to  save  him,  they,  the  boys,  having  unsuccessfully  at- 
tempted all:  how  upon  that  Richard  had  tried  with  the 
utmost  earnestness  to  pursuade  her  to  disrobe  and  wind 
the  rope  round  her  own  person:  and  Ripton  had  aired 
his  eloquence  to  induce  her  to  secrete  the  file:  how,  when 
she  resolutely  objected  to  the  rope,  both  boys  began  back- 
ing the  file,  and  in  an  evil  hour,  she  feared,  said  Dame 
Bakewell,  she  had  rewarded  the  gracious  permission  given 
her  by  Sir  Miles  Papworth  to  visit  her  sun,  by  tempting 
Tom  to  file  the  Law.  Though,  thanks  be  to  tlie  herd! 
Dame  Bakewell  added,  Tom  had  turned  up  his  nose  at 
the  file,  and  so  she  had  told  young  Master  Richard,  who 
swore  very  bad  for  a  young  gentleman. 

"Boys  are  like  monkeys,"  remarked  Adrian,  at  the  close 


JUVENILE  STRATAGEMS  39 

of  his  explosions,  "the  gravest  actors  of  farcical  nonsense 
that  the  world  possesses.  May  I  never  be  where  there  are 
no  boys !  A  couple  of  boys  left  to  themselves  will  furnish 
richer  fun  than  any  troop  of  trained  comedians.  No:  no 
Art  arrives  at  the  artlessness  of  nature  in  matters  of 
comedy.  You  can't  simulate  the  ape.  Your  antics  are 
dull.  They  haven't  the  charming  inconsequence  of  the 
natural  animal.  Look  at  these  two!  Think  of  the  shifts 
they  are  put  to  all  day  long!  They  know  I  know  all 
about  it,  and  yet  their  serenity  of  innocence  is  all  but 
unruffled  in  my  presence.  You're  sorry  to  think  about 
the  end  of  the  business,  Austin?  So  am  I!  I  dread  the 
idea  of  the  curtain  going  down.  Besides,  it  will  do  Ricky 
a  world  of  good.     A  practical  lesson  is  the  best  lesson." 

"Sinks  deepest,"  said  Austin,  "but  whether  he  learns 
good  or  evil  from  it  is  the  question  at  stake." 

Adrian  stretched  his  length  at  ease. 

"This  will  be  his  first  nibble  at  experience,  old  Time's 
fruit,  hateful  to  the  palate  of  youth !  for  which  season  only 
hath  it  any  nourishment!  Experience!  You  know  Cole- 
ridge's capital  simile? — Mournful  you  call  it?  Well!  all 
wisdom  is  mournful.  'Tis  therefore,  coz,  that  the  wise  do 
love  the  Comic  Muse.  Their  own  high  food  would  kill 
them.  You  shall  find  great  poets,  rare  philosophers,  night 
after  night  on  the  broad  grin  before  a  row  of  yellow  lights 
and  mouthing  masks.  Why?  Because  all's  dark  at  home. 
The  stage  is  the  pastime  of  great  minds.  That's  how  it 
comes  that  the  stage  is  now  down.  An  age  of  rampant 
little  minds,  my  dear  Austin!  How  I  hate  that  cant  of 
yours  about  an  Age  of  Work — you,  and  your  Mortons, 
and  your  parsons  Brawnley,  rank  radicals  all  of  you,  base 
materialists !  What  does  Diaper  Sandoe  sing  of  your  Age 
of  Work?    Listen! 

'An  Age  of  petty  tit  for  tat, 

An  Age  of  busy  gabble: 
An  age  that's  like  a  brewer's  vat, 
Fermenting  for  the  rabble! 

'An  Age  that's  chaste  in  Love,  but  lax 

To  virtuous  abuses: 
Whose  gentlemen  and  ladies  wax 

Too  dainty  for  their  uses. 


40       THE  ORDEAL  OF  UK  "HARD  FEVEREL 

'An  Age  that  drives  an  lion  Horse, 

Of  Time  and  Space  defiant; 
Exulting  in  a  Giant's  Force, 
And  trembling  at  the  Giant. 

'An  Ape  of  Quaker  hue  and  cut, 
By  Mammon  misbegotten; 

See  the  mad  Hamlet  mouth  and  strut! 
And  mark  the  Kings  of  Cotton ! 

'From  this  unrest,  lo,  early  wreck'd, 

A  Future  staggers  crazy, 
Ophelia  of  the  Apes,  deck'd 

With  woeful  weed  and  daisy!'" 

Murmuring,  "Get  your  parson  Brawnley  to  answer 
that!"  Adrian  changed  the  resting-place  of  a  leg,  and 
smiled.  The  Age  was  an  old  battle-field  between  him  and 
Austin. 

"My  parson  Brawnley,  as  you  call  him,  has  answered 
it,"  said  Austin,  "not  by  hoping  his  best,  which  would 
probably  leave  the  Age  to  go  mad  to  your  satisfaction, 
but  by  doing  it.  And  he  has  and  will  answer  your  Diaper 
Sandoe  in  better  verse,  as  he  confutes  him  in  a  better 
life." 

"You  don't  see  Sandoe's  depth,"  Adrian  replied.  "Con- 
sider that  phrase,  'Ophelia  of  the  Ages'!  Is  not  Brawn- 
ley, like  a  dozen  other  leading  spirits — I  think  that's  your 
term — just  the  metaphysical  Hamlet  to  drive  her  mad  ? 
She,  poor  maid!  asks  for  marriage  and  smiling  babes, 
while  my  lord  lover  stands  questioning  the  Infinite,  and 
rants  to  the  Impalpable." 

Austin  laughed.  "Marriage  and  smiling  babes  she 
would  have  in  abundance,  if  Brawnley  legislated.  Wait 
till  you  know  him.  He  will  be  over  at  Poer  Hall  shortly, 
and  you  will  see  what  a  Man  of  the  Age  means.  But  now, 
pray,  consult  with  me  about  these  boys." 

"Oh,  those  boys!"  Adrian  tossed  a  hand.  "Are  there 
boys  of  the  Age  as  well  as  men  ?  Not  ?  Then  boys  are 
better  than  men :  boys  are  for  all  Ages.  What  do  you 
think,  Austin?  They've  been  studying  Latude's  Escape. 
I  found  the  book  open  in  Ricky's  room,  on  the  top  of 
Jonathan  Wild.  Jonathan  preserved  the  secrets  of  his 
profession,  and  taught  them  nothing.    So  they're  going  to 


JUVENILE  STRATAGEMS  41 

make  a  Latude  of  Mr.  Tom  Bakewell.  He's  to  be  Bastille 
Bakewell,  whether  he  will  or  no.  Let  them.  Let  the  wild 
colt  run  free!  We  can't  help  them.  We  can  only  look 
on.    We  should  spoil  the  play." 

Adrian  always  made  a  point  of  feeding  the  fretful  beast 
Impatience  with  pleasantries — a  not  congenial  diet;  and 
Austin,  the  most  patient  of  human  beings,  began  to  lose 
his  self-control. 

"You  talk  as  if  Time  belonged  to  you,  Adrian.  We 
have  but  a  few  hours  left  us.  Work  first,  and  joke  after- 
wards.    The  boy's  fate  is  being  decided  now." 

"So  is  everybody's,  my  dear  Austin!"  yawned  the  epi- 
curean. 

"Yes,  but  this  boy  is  at  present  under  our  guardianship 
— under  yours  especially." 

"Not  yet !  not  yet !"  Adrian  interjected  languidly.  "No 
getting  into  scrapes  when  I  have  him.  The  leash,  young 
hound  !  the  collar,  young  colt !  I'm  perfectly  irresponsible 
at  present." 

"You  may  have  something  different  to  deal  with  when 
you  are  responsible,  if  you  think  that." 

"I  take  my  young  prince  as  I  find  him,  coz :  a  Julian, 
or  a  Caracalla:  a  Constantine,  or  a  Nero.  Then,  if  he 
will  play  the  fiddle  to  a  conflagration,  he  shall  play  it  well : 
if  he  must  be  a  disputatious  apostate,  at  any  rate  he  shall 
understand  logic  and  men,  and  have  the  habit  of  saying 
his  prayers." 

"Then  you  leave  me  to  act  alone?"  said  Austin,  rising. 

"Without  a  single  curb !"  Adrian  gesticulated  an  acqui- 
esced withdrawal.  "I'm  sure  you  would  not,  still  more 
certain  you  cannot,  do  harm.  And  be  mindful  of  my  pro- 
phetic words :  Whatever's  done,  old  Blaize  will  have  to  be 
bought  off.  There's  the  affair  settled  at  once.  I  suppose 
I  must  go  to  the  chief  to-night  and  settle  it  myself.  We 
can't  see  this  poor  devil  condemned,  though  it's  nonsense 
to  talk  of  a  boy  being  the  prime  instigator." 

Austin  cast  an  eye  at  the  complacent  languor  of  the 
wise  youth,  his  cousin,  and  the  little  that  he  knew  of  his 
fellows  told  him  he  might  talk  for  ever  here,  and  not  be 
comprehended.  The  wise  youth's  two  ears  were  stuffed 
with  his  own  wisdom.  One  evil  only  Adrian  dreaded,  it 
was  clear — the  action  of  the  law. 


42       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

As  ho  was  moving  away,  Adrian  called  out  to  him, 
"Stop,  Austin!  There!  don't  ho  anxious!  You  invariably 
take  the  glum  side.  I've  done  something.  Never  mind 
what  If  you  go  down  to  Belthorpe,  be  civil,  but  not 
obsequious.  You  remember  tho  tactics  of  Scipio  Afri- 
canus  against  the  Punic  elephants?  Well,  don't  say  a 
word — in  thine  ear,  coz:  I've  turned  Master  Blaize's 
elephants.  If  they  charge,  'twill  he  a  feint,  and  back  to 
the  destruction  of  his  serried  ranks!  You  understand. 
Not?  Well,  'tis  as  well.  Only,  let  none  say  that!  sleep. 
If  I  must  see  him  to-night,  I  go  down  knowing  he  has 
not  got  us  in  his  power."  The  wise  youth  yawned,  and 
stretched  out  a  hand  for  any  book  that  might  he  within 
his  reach.  Austin  left  him  to  look  about  the  grounds  for 
Richard. 


CHAPTER    VII 

DAPHNE'S    BOWER 

A  little  laurel-shaded  temple  of  white  marble  looked 
out  on  the  river  from  a  knoll  bordering  the  Raynham 
beechwoods,  and  was  dubbed  by  Adrian  Daphne's  Bower. 
To  this  spot  Richard  had  retired,  and  there  Austin  found 
him  with  his  head  buried  in  his  hands,  a  picture  of  des- 
peration, whose  last  shift  has  been  defeated.  He  allowed 
Austin  to  greej  him  and  sit  by  him  without  lifting  his 
head.     Perhaps  his  eyes  were  not  presentable. 

''Where's  your  friend  ?"     Austin  began. 

"Gone!"  was  the  answer,  sounding  cavernous  from  be- 
hind hair  and  fingers.  An  explanation  presently  followed, 
that  a  summons  had  come  for  him  in  the  morning  from 
Mr.  Thompson ;  and  that  Mr.  Ripton  had  departed  against 
his  will. 

In  fact,  Ripton  had  protested  that  he  would  defy  his 
parent  and  remain  by  his  friend  in  the  hour  of  adversity 
and  at  the  post  of  danger.  Sir  Austin  signified  his  opin- 
ion that  a  boy  should  obey  his  parent,  by  giving  orders  to 
Benson  for  Ripton's  box  to  be  packed  and  ready  before 
noon;  and  Ripton's  alacrity  in  taking  the  baronet's  view 
of  filial  duty  was  as  little  feigned  as  his  offer  to  Richard 


DAPHNE'S   BOWEE  43 

to  throw  filial  duty  to  the  winds.  He  rejoiced  that  the 
Fates  had  agreed  to  remove  him  from  the  very  hot  neigh- 
bourhood of  Lobourne,  while  he  grieved,  like  an  honest 
lad,  to  see  his  comrade  left  to  face  calamity  alone.  The 
boys  parted  amicably,  as  they  could  hardly  fail  to  do,  when 
Ripton  had  sworn  fealty  to  the  Feverels  with  a  warmth 
that  made  him  declare  himself  bond,  and  due  to  appear 
at  any  stated  hour  and  at  any  stated  place  to  fight  all  the 
farmers  in  England,  on  a  mandate  from  the  heir  of  the 
house. 

"So  you're  left  alone,"  said  Austin,  contemplating  the 
boy's  shapely  head.  "I'm  glad  of  it.  We  never  know 
what's  in  us  till  we  stand  by  ourselves." 

There  appeared  to  be  no  answer  forthcoming.  Vanity, 
however,  replied  at  last,  "He  wasn't  much  support." 

"Remember  his  good  points  now  he's  gone,  Ricky." 

"Oh !  he  was  staunch,"  the  boy  grumbled. 

"And  a  staunch  friend  is  not  always  to  be  found.  Now, 
have  you  tried  your  own  way  of  rectifying  this  business, 
Ricky?" 

"I  have  done  everything." 

"And  failed!" 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  the  deep-toned  evasion — 

"Tom  Bakewell's  a  coward!" 

"I.  suppose,  poor  fellow,"  said  Austin,  in  his  kind  way, 
"he  doesn't  want  to  get  into  a  deeper  mess.  I  don't  think 
he's  a  coward." 

"He  is  a  coward,"  cried  Richard.  "Do  you  think  if  I 
had  a  file  I  would  stay  in  prison?  I'd  be  out  the  first 
night!  And  he  might  have  had  the  rope,  too — a  rope 
thick  enough  for  a  couple  of  men  his  size  and  weight. 
Ripton  and  I  and  Ned  Markham  swung  on  it  for  an  hour, 
and  it  didn't  give  way.  He's  a  coward,  and  deserves  his 
fate.     I've  no  compassion  for  a  coward." 

"Nor  I  much,"  said  Austin. 

Richard  had  raised  his  head  in  the  heat  of  his  denuncia- 
tion of  poor  Tom.  He  would  have  hidden  it  had  he  known 
the  thought  in  Austin's  clear  eyes  while  he  faced  them. 

"I  never  met  a  coward  myself,"  Austin  continued.  "I 
have  heard  of  one  or  two.  One  let  an  innocent  man  die 
for  him." 

"How  base!"  exclaimed  the  boy. 


44       THE  ORDEAL  OE  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"Yes,  it  was  bad,"  Austin  acquiesced. 

"BadI"  Richard  scorned  the  poor  contempt.  "How  I 
would  have  spurned  him!    He  was  a  coward!" 

"I  believe  he  pleaded  the  feelings  of  his  family  in  his 
excuse,  and  tried  every  means  to  get  the  man  oil".  I  have 
.•ead  also  in  the  confessions  of  a  celebrated  philosopher, 
chat  in  his  youth  he  committed  some  act  of  pilfering,  and 
accused  a  young  servant-girl  of  his  own  theft,  who  was 
condemned  and  dismissed  for  it,  pardoning  her  guilty 
accuser." 

"What  a  coward !"  shouted  Richard.  "And  he  confessed 
it  publicly?" 

"You  may  read  it  yourself." 

"He  actually  wrote  it  down,  and  printed  it?" 

"You  have  the  book  in  your  father's  library.  Would 
you  have  done  so  much  ?" 

Richard  faltered.  No!  he  admitted  that  he  never  could 
have   told   people. 

"Then  who  is  to  call  that  man  a  coward?"  Said 
Austin.  "He  expiated  his  cowardice  as  all  who  give  way 
in  moments  of  weakness,  and  are  not  cowards,  must  do. 
The  coward  chooses  to  think  'God  does  not  see.  I  shall 
escape.'  He  who  is  not  a  coward,  and  has  succumbed, 
knows  that  God  has  seen  all,  and  it  is  not  so  hard  a 
task  for  him  to  make  his  heart  bare  to  the  world.  Worse, 
I  should  fancy  it,  to  know  myself  an  impostor  when  men 
praised  me." 

Young  Richard's  eyes  were  wandering  on  Austin's 
gravely  cheerful  face.  A  keen  intentness  suddenly  fixed 
them,  and  he  dropped  his  head. 

"So  I  think  you're  wrong,  Ricky,  in  calling  this  poor 
Tom  a  coward  because  he  refuses  to  try  your  means  of 
escape,"  Austin  resumed.  "A  coward  hardly  objects  to 
drag  in  his  accomplice.  And,  where  the  person  involved 
belongs  to  a  great  family,  it  seems  to  me  that  for  a  poor 
plough-lad  to  volunteer  not  to  do  so  speaks  him  anything 
but  a  coward." 

Richard  was  dumb.  Altogether  to  surrender  his  rope 
and  file  was  a  fearful  sacrifice,  after  all  the  time,  trepida- 
tion, and  study  he  had  spent  on  those  two  saving  instru- 
ments. If  he  avowed  Tom's  manly  behaviour,  Richard 
Feverel  was  in  a  totally  new  position.     Whereas,  by  keep- 


DAPHNE'S  BOWER  45 

ing  Tom  a  coward,  Richard  Feverel  was  the  injured  one, 
and  to  seem  injured  is  always  a  luxury;  sometimes  a 
necessity,  whether  among  boys  or  men. 

In  Austin  the  Magian  conflict  would  not  have  lasted 
long.  He  had  but  a  blind  notion  of  the  fierceness  with 
which  it  raged  in  young  Richard.  Happily  for  the  boy, 
Austin  was  not  a  preacher.  A  single  instance,  a  cant 
phrase,  a  fatherly  manner,  might  have  wrecked  him,  by 
arousing  ancient  or  latent  opposition.  The  born  preacher 
we  feel  instinctively  to  be  our  foe.  He  may  do  some  good 
to  the  wretches  that  have  been  struck  down  and  lio  gasp- 
ing on  the  battlefield :  he  rouses  antagonism  in  the  strong. 
Richard's  nature,  left  to  itself,  wanted  little  more  than 
an  indication  of  the  proper  track,  and  when  he  said, 
"Tell  me  what  I  can  do,  Austin?"  he  had  fought  the  best 
half  of  the  battle.  His  voice  was  subdued.  Austin  put 
his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder. 

"You  must  go  down  to  Farmer  Blaize." 

"Well!"  said  Richard,  sullenly  divining  the  deed  of 
penance. 

"You'll  know  what  to  say  to  him  when  you're  there." 

The  boy  bit  his  lip  and  frowned.  "Ask  a  favour  of 
that  big  brute,  Austin?    I  can't!" 

"Just  tell  him  the  whole  case,  and  that  you  don't  intend 
to  stand  by  and  let  the  poor  fellow  suffer  without  a  friend 
to  help  him  out  of  his  scrape." 

"But,  Austin,"  the  boy  pleaded,  "I  shall  have  to  ask 
him  to  help  off  Tom  Bakewell!  How  can  I  ask  him,  when 
I  hate  him?" 

Austin  bade  him  go,  and  think  nothing  of  the  conse- 
quences till  he  got  there. 

Richard  groaned  in  soul. 

"You've  no  pride,  Austin." 

"Perhaps  not." 

"You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  ask  a  favour  of  a  brute 
you  hate." 

Richard  stuck  to  that  view  of  the  case,  and  stuck  to  it 
the  faster  the  more  imperatively  the  urgency  of  a  move- 
ment dawned  upon  him. 

"Why,"  continued  the  boy,  "I  shall  hardly  be  able  to 
keep  my  fists  off  him!" 

"Surely  you've  punished  him  enough,  boy  ?"  said  Austin. 


46       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"He  struck  me!"  Richard's  lip  quivered.  "He  dared 
not  come  at  me  with  his  hands.  He  struck  me  with  a 
whip.  He'll  be  telling  everybody  that  he  horsewhipped 
me,  and  that  I  went  down  and  begged  his  pardon.  Begged 
his  pardon!  A  Feverel  beg  his  pardon!  Oh,  if  I  had 
my  will!" 

"The  man  earns  his  bread.  Micky.  You  poached  on  his 
grounds.     Ho  turned  you  off,  and  you  fired  his  rick." 

"And  I'll  pay  him  for  his  loss.  And  I  won't  do  any 
more." 

"Because  you  won't  ask  a  favour  of  him?" 

"No!  I  will  not  ask  a  favour  of  him." 

Austin  looked  at  the  boy  steadily.  "You  prefer  to  re- 
ceive a  favour  from  poor  Tom  Bakewell  ?" 

At  Austin's  enunciation  of  this  obverse  view  of  the 
matter  Richard  raised  his  brow.  Dimly  a  new  light  broke 
in  upon  him.  "Favour  from  Tom  Bakewell,  the  plough- 
man?    How  do  you  mean,  Austin?" 

"To  save  yourself  an  unpleasantness  you  permit  a 
country  lad  to  sacrifice  himself  for  you?  I  confess  I 
should  not  have  so  much  pride." 

"Pride!"  shouted  Richard,  stung  by  the  taunt,  and  set 
his  sight  hard  at  the  blue  ridges  of  the  hills. 

Not  knowing  for  the  moment  what  else  to  do,  Austin 
drew  a  picture  of  Tom  in  prison,  and  repeated  Tom's 
volunteer  statement.  •  The  picture,  though  his  intentions 
were  far  from  designing  it  so,  had  to  Richard,  whose  per- 
ception of  humour  was  infinitely  keener,  a  horrible  chaw- 
bacon  smack  about  it.  Visions  of  a  grinning  lout,  open 
from  ear  to  ear,  unkempt,  coarse,  splay-footed,  rose  before 
him  and  afflicted  him  with  the  strangest  sensations  of 
disgust  and  comicality,  mixed  up  with  pity  and  remorse — 
a  sort  of  twisted  pathos.  There  lay  Tom;  hobnail  Tom! 
a  bacon-munching,  reckless,  beer-swilling  animal!  and  yet 
a  man-,  a  dear  brave  human  heart  notwithstanding;  ca- 
pable of  devotion  and  unselfishness.  The  boy's  better 
spirit  was  touched,  and  it  kindled  his  imagination  to 
realize  the  abject  figure  of  poor  clodpole  Tom,  and  sur- 
round it  with  a  halo  of  mournful  light.  His  soul  was 
alive.  Feelings  he  had  never  known  streamed  in  upon  him 
as  from  an  ethereal  casement,  an  unwonted  tenderness, 
an  embracing  humour,  a  consciousness  of  some  ineffable 


THE  BITTER  CUP  47 

glory,  an  irradiation  of  the  features  of  humanity.  All 
this  was  in  the  bosom  of  the  boy,  and  through  it  all  the 
vision  of  an  actual  hob-nail  Tom,  coarse,  unkempt,  open 
from  ear  to  ear;  whose  presence  was  a  finger  of  shame  to 
him  and  an  oppression  of  clodpole;  yet  toward  whom  he 
felt  just  then  a  loving-kindness  beyond  what  he  felt  for 
any  living  creature.  He  laughed  at  him,  and  wept  over 
him.  He  prized  him,  while  he  shrank  from  him.  It  was 
a  genial  strife  of  the  angel  in  him  with  constituents  less 
divine;  but  the  angel  was  uppermost  and  led  the  van — 
extinguished  loathing,  humanized  laughter,  transfigured 
pride — pride  that  would  persistently  contemplate  the  cor- 
duroys of  gaping  Tom,  and  cry  to  Richard,  in  the  very 
tone  of  Adrian's  ironic  voice,  "Behold  your  benefactor!'* 

Austin  sat  by  the  boy,  unaware  of  the  sublimer  tumult 
he  had  stirred.  Little  of  it  was  perceptible  in  Richard's 
countenance.  The  Hues  of  his  mouth  were  slightly  drawn; 
his  eyes  hard  set  into  the  distance.  He  remained  thus 
many  minutes.  Finally  he  jumped  to  his  legs,  saying, 
"I'll  go  at  once  to  old  Blaize  and  tell  him." 

Austin  grasped  his  hand,  and  together  they  issued  out 
of  Daphne's  Bower,  in  the  direction  of  Lobourne. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE   BITTER   CUP 

Farmer  Blaize  was  not  so  astonished  at  the  visit  of 
Richard  Feverel  as  that  young  gentleman  expected  him  to 
be.  The  farmer,  seated  in  his  easy-chair  in  the  little  low- 
roofed  parlour  of  an  old-fashioned  farm-house,  with  a  long 
clay  pipe  on  the  table  at  his  elbow,  and  a  veteran  pointer 
at  his  feet,  had  already  given  audience  to  three  dis- 
tinguished members  of  the  Feverel  blood,  who  had  come 
separately,  according  to  their  accustomed  secretiveness, 
and  with  one  object.  In  the  morning  it  was  Sir  Austin 
himself.  Shortly  after  his  departure,  arrived  Austin 
Wentworth ;  close  on  his  heels,  Algernon,  known  about 
Lobourne  as  the  Captain,  popular  wherever  he  was  known. 
Farmer  Blaize  reclined  in  considerable  elation.     He  had 


48       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

brought  these  great  people  to  a  pretty  low  pitch.  He  had 
welcomed  them  hospitably,  as  a  British  yeoman  should; 
but  not  budged  a  foot  in  his  demands:  not  to  the  baronet: 
not  to  the  Captain:  not  to  good. young  Mr.  Wentworth. 
For  Farmer  Blaize  was  a  solid  Englishman;  and,  on  hear- 
ing from  the  baronet  a  frank  confession  of  the  hold  he 
had  on  the  family,  he  determined  to  tighten  his  hold, 
and  only  relax  it  in  exchange  for  tangible  advantages — 
compensation  to  his  pocket,  his  wounded  person,  and  his 
still  more  wounded  sentiments:  the  total  indemnity  being, 
in  round  figures,  three  hundred  pounds,  and  a  spoken 
apology  from  the  prime  offender,  young  Mister  Richard. 
Even  then  there  was  a  reservation.  Provided,  the  farmer 
said,  nobody  had  been  tampering  with  any  of  his  witnesses. 
In  that  case  Farmer  Blaize  declared  the  money  might  go, 
and  he  would  transport  Tom  Bakewell,  as  he  had  sworn 
he  would.  And  it  goes  hard,  too,  with  an  accomplice,  by 
law,  added  the  farmer,  knocking  the  ashes  leisurely  out 
of  his  pipe.  He  had  no  wish  to  bring  any  disgrace  any- 
where; he  respected  the  inmates  of  Raynham  Abbey,  aa 
in  duty  bound ;  he  should  be  sorry  to  see  them  in  trouble. 
Only  no  tampering  with  his  witnesses.  He  was  a  man 
for  Law.  Rank  was  much:  money  was  much :  but  Law 
was  more.  In  this  country  Law  was  above  the  sovereign. 
To  tamper  with  the  Law  was  treason  to  the  realm. 

"I  come  to  you  direct,"  the  baronet  explained.  "I  tell 
you  candidly  in  what  way  I  discovered  my  son  to  be  mixed 
u])  in  this  miserable  affair.  I  promise  you  indemnity  for 
your  loss,  and  an  apology  that  shall,  I  trust,  satisfy  your 
feelings,  assuring  you  that  to  tamper  with  witnesses  is 
not  the  province  of  a  Feverel.  All  I  ask  of  you  in  return 
is,  not  to  press  the  prosecution.  At  present  it  rests  with 
you.  I  am  bound  to  do  all  that  lies  in  my  power  for  this 
imprisoned  man.  How  and  wherefore  my  son  was 
prompted  to  suggest,  or  assist  in,  such  an  act,  I  cannot 
explain,  for  I  do  not  know." 

"Hum!"  said  the  farmer.     "I  think  I  do." 

"You  know  the  cause?"  Sir  Austin  stared.  "I  beg  you 
to  confide  it  to  me." 

'"Least,  I  can  pretty  nigh  neighbour  it  with  a  guess," 
said  the  farmer.  "We  an't  good  friends,  Sir  Austin,  me 
and  your  son,  just  now — not  to  say  cordial.     I,  ye  see,  Sir 


THE  BITTER  CUP  49 

Austin,  I'm  a  man  as  don't  like  young  gentlemen 
a-poachin'  on  his  grounds  without  his  permission, — in 
special  when  birds  is  plentiful  on  their  own.  It  appear 
he  do  like  it.  Consequently  I  has  to  flick  this  whip — as 
them  fellers  at  the  races:  All  in  this  'ere  Ring's  mine! 
as  much  as  to  say;  and  who's  been  hit,  he's  had  fair 
warnin'.     I'm  sorry  for't,  but  that's  just  the  case." 

Sir  Austin  retired  to  communicate  with  his  son,  when 
he  should  find  him. 

Algernon's  interview  passed  off  in  ale  and  promises. 
He  also  assured  Farmer  Blaize  that  no  Feverel  could  be 
affected  by  his  proviso. 

No  less  did  Austin  Wentworth.  The  farmer  was 
satisfied. 

"Money's  safe,  I  know,"  said  he ;  "now  for  the  'pology !" 
and  Farmer  Blaize  thrust  his  legs  further  out,  and  his 
head  further  back. 

The  farmer  naturally  reflected  that  the  three  separate 
visits  had  been  conspired  together.  Still  the  baronet's 
frankness,  and  the  baronet's  not  having  reserved  himself 
for  the  third  and  final  charge,  puzzled  him.  He  was  con- 
sidering whether  they  were  a  deep,  or  a  shallow  lot,  when 
young  Richard  was  announced. 

A  pretty  little  girl  with  the  roses  of  thirteen  springs  in 
her  cheeks,  and  abundant  beautiful  bright  tresses,  tripped 
before  the  boy,  and  loitered  shyly  by  the  farmer's  arm- 
chair to  steal  a  look  at  the  handsome  new-comer.  She 
was  introduced  to  Richard  as  the  farmer's  niece,  Lucy 
Desborough,  the  daughter  of  a  lieutenant  in  the  Royal 
Navy,  and,  what  was  better,  though  the  farmer  did  not 
pronounce  it  so  loudly,  a  real  good  girl. 

Neither  the  excellence  of  her  character,  nor  her  rank  in 
life,  tempted  Richard  to  inspect  the  little  lady.  He  made 
an  awkward  bow,  and  sat  down. 

The  farmer's  eyes  twinkled.  "Her  father,"  he  con- 
tinued, "fought  and  fell  for  his  coontry.  A  man  as  fights 
for's  coontry's  a  right  to  hould  up  his  head — ay!  with 
any  in  the  land.  Desb'roughs  o'  Dorset!  d'ye  know  that 
family,  Master  Feverel?" 

Richard  did  not  know  them,  and,  by  his  air,  did  not 
desire  to  become  acquainted  with  any  offshoot  of  that 
family. 


50       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"She  can  make  puddens  and  pies,"  the  fanner  went  on, 
regardless  of  his  auditor's  gloom.  "She's  a  lady,  as  good 
as  the  best  of  'em,  I  don't  care  about  their  being  Cath- 
olics—the Desb'roughs  o'  Dorset  are  gentlemen.  And 
she's  good  for  the  pianer,  too!  She  strums  to  me  of 
eyenin's.  I'm  for  the  old  tunes:  she's  for  the  new.  Gal- 
like! While  she's  with  me  she  shall  be  taught  things 
use'l.  She  can  parley-voo  a  good  'un  and  foot  it,  as  it 
goes  ;  been  in  France  a  couple  of  year.  I  prefer  the  singin' 
of  't  to  the  talkin'  of  't.  Come,  Luce!  toon  up — ehf — 
Ye  wun't?  That  song  about  the  Viffendeer — a  female" 
— Farmer  Blaize  volunteered  the  translation  of  the  title — 
"who  wears  the — you  guess  what !  and  marches  along  with 
the  French  sojers:  a  pretty  brazen  hit  </  goods,  1  sh'd 
fancy." 

Mademoiselle  Lucy  corrected  her  uncle's  French,  but 
objected  to  do  more.  The  handsome  cross  boy  had  almost 
taken  away  her  voice  for  speech,  as  it  was,  and  sing  in  his 
company  she  could  not;  so  she  stood,  a  hand  on  her  uncle's 
chair  to  stay  herself  from  falling,  while  she  wriggled  a 
dozen  various  shapes  of  refusal,  and  shook  her  head  at  the 
farmer  with  fixed  eyes. 

"Aha!"  laughed  the  farmer,  dismissing  her,  "they  soon 
learn  the  difference  'twixt  the  young  'un  and  the  old  'un. 
Go  along,  Luce!  and  learn  yer  lessons  for  to-morrow." 

Reluctantly  the  daughter  of  the  Royal  Navy  glided 
away.  Her  uncle's  head  followed  her  to  the  door,  where 
she  dallied  to  catch  a  last  impression  of  the  young 
stranger's  lowering  face,  and  darted  through. 

Farmer  Blaize  laughed  and  chuckled.  "She  an't  so 
fond  of  her  uncle  as  that,  every  day!  Not  that  she  an't 
a  good  nurse — the  kindest  little  soul  you'd  meet  of  a  win- 
ter's walk !  She'll  read  t'  ye,  and  make  drinks,  and  sing, 
too,  if  ye  likes  it,  and  she  won't  be  tired.  A  obstinate 
good  'un,  she  be!    Bless  her!" 

The  farmer  may  have  designed,  by  these  eulogies  of  his 
niece,  to  give  his  visitor  time  to  recover  his  composure, 
and  establish  a  common  topic.  His  diversion  only  irri- 
tated and  confused  our  shame-eaten  youth.  Richard's 
intention  had  been  to  come  to  the  farmer's  threshold :  to 
summon  the  farmer  thither,  and  in  a  loud  and  haughty 
tone   then    and    there    to    take   upon    himself   the   whole 


THE  BITTER  CUP  51 

burden  of  the  charge  against  Tom  Bakewell.  He  had 
strayed,  during  his  passage  to  Belthorpe,  somewhat  back 
to  his  old  nature;  and  his  being  compelled  to  enter  the 
house  of  his  enemy,  sit  in  his  chair,  and  endure  an  intro- 
duction to  his  family,  was  more  than  he  bargained  for. 
He  commenced  blinking  hard  in  preparation  for  the  horri- 
ble dose  to  which  delay  and  the  farmer's  cordiality  added 
inconceivable  bitters.  Farmer  Blaize  was  quite  at  his 
ease ;  nowise  in  a  hurry.  He  spoke  of  the  weather  and  the 
harvest:  of  recent  doings  up  at  the  Abbey:  glanced  over 
that  year's  cricketing;  hoped  that  no  future  Feverel  would 
lose  a  leg  to  the  game.  Richard  saw  and  heard  Arson  in 
it  all.  He  blinked  harder  as  he  neared  the  cup.  In  a 
moment  of  silence,  he  seized  it  with  a  gasp. 

"Mr.  Blaize !  I  have  come  to  tell  you  that  I  am  the  per- 
Eon  who  set  fire  to  your  rick  the  other  night." 

An  odd  contraction  formed  about  the  farmer's  mouth. 
He  changed  his  posture,  and  said,  "Ay?  that's  what  ye're 
come  to  tell  me,  sir?" 

"Yes!"  said  Richard,  firmly. 

"And  that  be  all?" 

"Yes!"  Richard  reiterated. 

The  farmer  again  changed  his  posture.  "Then,  my  lad, 
ye've  come  to  tell  me  a  lie!" 

Farmer  Blaize  looked  straight  at  the  boy,  undismayed 
by  the  dark  flush  of  ire  he  had  kindled. 

"You  dare  to  call  me  a  liar!"  cried  Richard,  starting 
up. 

"I  say,"  the  farmer  renewed  his  first  emphasis,  and 
smacked  his  thigh  thereto,  "that's  a  lie!" 

Richard  held  out  his  clenched  fist.  "You  have  twice 
insulted  me.  You  have  struck  me:  you  have  dared  to 
call  me  a  liar.  I  would  have  apologized — I  would  have 
asked  your  pardon,  to  have  got  off  that  fellow  in  prison. 
Yes!  I  would  have  degraded  myself  that  another  man 
should  not  suffer  for  my  deed" 

"Quite  proper!"  interposed  the  farmer. 

"And  you  take  this  opportunity  of  insulting  me  afresh. 
You're  a  coward,  sir!  nobody  but  a  coward  would  have 
insulted  me  in  his  own  house." 

"Sit  ye  down,  sit  ye  down,  young  master,"  said  the 
farmer,  indicating  the  chair  and  cooling  the  outburst  with 


52        THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

his  hand.  "Sit  ye  down.  Don't  ye  be  hasty.  If  ye  hadn't 
been  hasty  t'other  day,  we  sh'd  a  been  friends  yet.  Sit  ye 
down,  sir.  I  sh'd  be  sorry  to  reckon  you  out  a  liar,  Mr. 
Feverel.  <«r  anybody  o'  your  name.  I  respects  yer  father 
though  we're  opp'site  politics.  I'm  willin'  to  think  well 
o'  you.  What  I  say  is,  that  as  you  say  an't  the  trewth. 
Mind!  I  don't  like  you  none  the  worse  for't.  But  it  an't 
what  is.     That's  all!     You  knows  it  as  well's  I!" 

Richard,  disdaining  to  show  signs  of  being  pacified, 
angrily  reseated  himself.  The  farmer  spoke  sense,  and 
the  boy,  after  his  late  interview  with  Austin,  had  become 
capable  of  perceiving  vaguely  that  a  towering  passion  is 
hardly  the  justification  for  a  wrong  course  of  conduct. 

"Come,"  continued  the  farmer,  not  unkindly,  "what  else 
have  you  to  say?" 

Here  was  the  same  bitter  cup  he  had  already  once 
drained  brimming  at  Richard's  lips  again!  Alas,  poor 
human  nature!  that  empties  to  the  dregs  a  dozen  of  these 
evil  drinks,  to  evade  the  single  one  which  Destiny,  less 
cruel,  had  insisted  upon. 

The  boy  blinked  and  tossed  it  off. 

"I  came  to  say  that  I  regretted  the  revenge  I  had  taken 
on  you  for  your  striking  me." 

Farmer  Blaize  nodded. 

"And  now  ye've  done,  young  gentleman?" 

Still  another  cupful! 

"I  should  be  very  much  obliged,"  Richard  formally 
began,  but  his  stomach  was  turned ;  he  could  but  sip  and 
sip,  and  gather  a  distaste  which  threatened  to  make  the 
penitential  act  impossible.  "Very  much  obliged,"  he  re- 
peated: "much  obliged,  if  you  would  be  so  kind,"  and  it 
struck  him  that  had  he  spoken  this  at  first  he  would  have 
given  it  a  wording  more  persuasive  with  the  farmer  and 
more  worthy  of  his  own  pride:  more  hones!:,  in  fact:  for 
a  sense  of  the  dishonesty  of  what  he  was  saying  caused 
him  to  cringe  and  simulate  humility  to  deceive  the  farmer, 
and  the  more  he  said  the  less  he  felt  his  words,  and,  feeling 
them  less,  ke  inflated  them  more.  "So  kind,"  he  stam- 
mered, "so  kind"  (fancy  a  Feveral  asking  this  big  brute 
to  be  so  kind!)  "as  to  do  me  the  favour"  (me  the  favour!) 
"to  exert  yourself  (it's  all  to  please  Austin)  "to  en- 
deavour to — hem!  to"  (there's  no  Baying  it!) 


THE  BITTER  CUP  53 

The  cup  was  full  as  ever.     Richard  dashed  at  it  again. 

"What  I  came  to  ask  is,  whether  you  would  have  the 
kindness  to  try  what  you  could  do"  (what  an  infamous 
shame  to  have  to  beg  like  this!)  "do  to  save — do  to  en- 
sure— whether   you    would    have    the    kindness" It 

seemed  out  of  all  human  power  to  gulp  it  down.  The 
draught  grew  more  and  more  abhorrent.  To  proclaim 
one's  iniquity,  to  apologize  for  one's  wrongdoing;  thus 
much  could  be  done;  but  to  beg  a  favour  of  the  offended 
party — that  was  beyond  the  self-abasement  any  Feverel 
could  consent  to.  Pride,  however,  whose  inevitable  bat- 
tle is  against  itself,  drew  aside  the  curtains  of  poor  Tom's 
prison,  crying  a  second  time,  "Behold  your  Benefactor!" 
and,  with  the  words  burning  in  his  ears,  Richard  swal- 
lowed the  dose: 

"Well,  then,  I  want  you,  Mr.  Blaize, — if  you  don't  mind 
— will  you  help  me  to  get  this  man  Bakewell  off  his  pun- 
ishment ?" 

To  do  Farmer  Blaize  justice,  he  waited  very  patiently 
for  the  boy,  though  he  could  not  quite  see  why  he  did  not 
take  the  gate  at  the  first  offer. 

"Oh !"  said  he,  when  he  heard  and  had  pondered  on  the 
request.  "Hum!  ha!  we'll  see  about  it  t'morrow.  But  if 
he's  innocent,  you  know,  we  shan't  mak'n  guilty." 

"It  was  I  did  it!"  Richard  declared. 

The  farmer's  half -amused  expression  sharpened  a  bit. 

"So,  young  gentleman!  and  you're  sorry  for  the  night's 
work?" 

"I  shall  see  that  you  are  paid  the  full  extent  of  your 
losses." 

"Thank'ee,"  said  the  farmer  drily. 

"And,  if  this  poor  man  is  released  to-morrow,  I  don't 
care  what  the  amount  is." 

Farmer  Blaize  deflected  his  head  twice  in  silence.  "Bri- 
bery," one  motion  expressed :  "Corruption,"  the  other. 

"Now,"  said  he,  leaning  forward,  and  fixing  his  elbows 
on  his  knees,  while  he  counted  the  case  at  his  fingers' 
ends,  "excuse  the  liberty,  but  wishin'  to  know  where  this 
'ere  money's  to  come  from,  I  sh'd  like  jest  t'ask  if  so  be 
Sir  Austin  know  o'  this?" 

"My  father  knows  nothing  of  it,"  replied  Richard. 

The  farmer  flung  back  in  his  chair.    "Lie  number  Two," 


1        THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

s;iid  his  shoulders,  soured  by  the  British  aversion  to  being 
plotted  at,  and  not  dealt  with  openly. 

"And  ye've  the  money  ready,  young  gentleman?" 

"I  shall  ask  my  father  for  it." 

"And  he'll  hand't  out?" 

"Certainly  he  will !" 

Richard  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  ever  letting 
his  father  into  his  counsels. 

"A  good  three  hundred  pounds,  ye  know?"  the  farmer 
suggested. 

No  consideration  of  the  extent  of  damages,  and  the  size 
of  the  sum,  affected  young  Richard,  who  said  boldly,  "He 
will  not  object  when  I  tell  him  I  want  that  sum." 

It  was  natural  Farmer  Blaize  should  be  a  trifle  sus- 
picious that  a  youth's  guarantee  would  hardly  be  given  for 
his  father's  readiness  to  disburse  such  a  thumping  bill, 
unless  he  had  previously  received  his  father's  sanction  and 
authority. 

"Hum!"  said  he,  "why  not  'a  told  him  before?" 

The  farmer  threw  an  objectionable  shrewdness  into  his 
query,  that  caused  Richard  to  compress  his  mouth  and 
glance  high. 

Farmer  Blaize  was  positive  'twas  a  lie. 

"Hum  !    Ye  still  hold  to't  you  fired  the  rick  ?"  he  asked. 

"The  blame  is  mine!"  quoth  Richard,  with  the  loftiness 
of  a  patriot  of  old  Rome. 

"Na,  na!"  the  straightforward  Briton  put  him  aside. 
"Ye  did't,  or  ye  didn't  do't.     Did  ye  do't,  or  no?" 

Thrust  in  a  corner,  Richard  said,  "I  did   it." 

Farmer  Blaize  reached  his  hand  to  the  bell.  It  was 
answered  in  an  instant  by  little  Lucy,  who  received  orders 
to  fetch  in  a  dependent  at  Belthorpe  going  by  the  name  of 
the  Bantam,  and  made  her  exit  as  she  had  entered,  with 
her  eyes  on  the  young  stranger. 

"Now,"  said  the  farmer,  "these  be  my  principles.  I'm 
a  plain  man,  Mr.  Feverel.  Above  board  with  me,  and 
you'll  find  me  handsome.  Try  to  circumvent  me,  and  I'm 
a  ugly  customer.  I'll  show  you  I've  no  animosity.  Your 
father  pays — you  apologize.  That's  enough  for  me!  Let 
Tom  Bakewell  fight't  out  with  the  Law,  and  I'll  look  on. 
The  Law  wasn't  on  the  spot,  I  suppose?  so  the  Law  ain't 
much  witness.     But  I  am.     Leastwise  the  Bantam  is.     I 


A  FINE  DISTINCTION  55 

tell  you,  young  gentleman,  the  Bantam  saw't!  It's  no 
moral  use  whatever  your  denyin'  that  ev'dence.  And 
where's  the  good,  sir,  I  ask  ?  What  comes  of  't  ?  Whether 
it  be  you,  or  whether  it  be  Tom  Bakewell — ain't  all  one? 
If  I  holds  back,  ain't  it  sim'lar?  It's  the  trewth  I  want  I 
And  here't  comes,"  added  the  farmer,  as  Miss  Lucy 
ushered  in  the  Bantam,  who  presented  a  curious  figure  for 
that  rare  divinity  to  enliven. 


CHAPTER   IX 
A   FINE  DISTINCTION 

In  build  of  body,  gait  and  stature,  Giles  Jinkson,  the 
Bantam,  was  a  tolerably  fair  representative  of  the  Punic 
elephant,  whose  part,  with  diverse  anticipations,  the  gen- 
erals of  the  Blaize  and  Feverel  forces,  from  opposing 
ranks,  expected  him  to  play.  Giles,  surnamed  the  Bantam, 
on  account  of  some  forgotten  sally  of  his  youth  or  infancy, 
moved  and  looked  elephantine.  It  sufficed  that  Giles  was 
well  fed  to  assure  that  Giles  was  faithful — if  uncorrupted. 
The  farm  which  supplied  to  him  ungrudging  provender 
had  all  his  vast  capacity  for  work  in  willing  exercise :  the 
farmer  who  held  the  farm  his  instinct  reverenced  as  the 
fountain-source  of  beef  and  bacon,  to  say  nothing  of  beer, 
which  was  plentiful  at  Belthorpe,  and  good.  This  Farmer 
Blaize  well  knew,  and  he  reckoned  consequently  that  here 
was  an  animal  always  to  be  relied  on — a  sort  of  human 
composition  out  of  dog,  horse,  and  bull,  a  cut  above  each 
of  these  quadrupeds  in  usefulness,  and  costing  propor- 
tionately more,  but  on  the  whole  worth  the  money,  and 
therefore  invaluable,  as  everything  worth  its  money  must 
be  to  a  wise  man.  When  the  stealing  of  grain  had  been 
made  known  at  Belthorpe,  the  Bantam,  a  fellow-thresher 
with  Tom  Bakewell,  had  shared  with  him  the  shadow  of 
the  guilt.  Farmer  Blaize,  if  he  hesitated  which  to  suspect, 
did  not  debate  a  second  as  to  which  he  would  discard; 
and,  when  the  Bantam  said  he  had  seen  Tom  secreting 
pilkins  in  a  sack,  Farmer  Blaize  chose  to  believe  him,  and 


56       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

off  went  poor  Torn,  told  to  rejoice  in  the  clemency  that 
spared  his  appearance  at  Sessions. 

The  Bantam's  small  sleepy  orbits  saw  many  things,  and 
just  at  the  right  moment,  it  seemed.  Jle  was  certainly  the 
hrst  to  give  the  clue  at  Belthorpe  on  the  night  of  the 
conflagration,  and  he  may,  therefore,  have  seen  poor  Tom 
retreating  stealthily  from  the  scene,  as  he  averred  he  did. 
Lobourne  had  its  say  on  the  subject.  Rustic  Lobourne 
hinted  broadly  at  a  young  woman  in  the  case,  and  more- 
over, told  a  tale  of  how  these  fellow-threshers  had,  in 
noble  rivalry,  one  day  turned  upon  each  other  to  see 
which  of  the  two  threshed  the  best ;  whereof  the  Bantam 
still  bore  marks,  and  malice,  it  was  said.  However,  there 
he  stood,  and  tugged  his  forelocks  to  the  company,  and  if 
Truth  really  had  concealed  herself  in  him  she  must  have 
been  hard  set  to  find  her  unlikeliest  hiding-place. 

"Now,"  said  the  farmer,  marshalling  forth  his  elephant 
with  the  confidence  of  one  who  delivers  his  ace  of  trumps, 
"tell  this  young  gentleman  what  ye  saw  on  the  night  of 
the  fire.  Bantam !" 

The  Bantam  jerked  a  bit  of  a  bow  to  his  patron,  and 
then  swung  round,  fully  obscuring  him  from  Richard. 

Richard  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  floor,  while  the  Bantam 
in  rudest  Doric  commenced  his  narrative.  Knowing  what 
was  to  come,  and  thoroughly  nerved  to  confute  the  main 
incident,  Richard  barely  listened  to  his  barbarous  locu- 
tion :  but  when  the  recital  arrived  at  the  point  where  the 
Bantam  affirmed  he  had  seen  "T'm  Baak'll  wi's  owen 
hoies,"  Richard  faced  him,  and  was  amazed  to  find  him- 
self being  mutely  addressed  by  a  series  of  intensely  sig- 
nificant grimaces,  signs,  and  winks. 

"What  do  you  mean?  Why  are  you  making  those  faces 
at  me?"  cried  the  boy  indignantly. 

Farmer  Blaize  leaned  round  the  Bantam  to  have  a  look 
at  him,  and  beheld  the  stolidest  mask  ever  given  to  man. 

"Bain't  makin'  no  faces  at  nobody,"  growled  the  sulky 
elephant. 

The  farmer  commanded  him  to  face  about  and  finish. 

"A  see  T'm  Baak'll,"  the  Bantam  recommenced,  and 
again  the  contortions  of  a  horrible  wink  were  directed  at 
Richard.  The  boy  might  well  believe  this  churl  was  lying, 
and  he  did,  and  was  emboldened  to  exclaim — 


A  FINE  DISTINCTION  57 

"You  never  saw  Tom  Bakewell  set  fire  to  that  rick !" 

The  Bantam  swore  to  it,  grimacing  an  accompaniment. 

"I  tell  you,"  said  Bichard,  "I  put  the  lucifers  there 
myself!" 

The  suborned  elephant  was  staggered.  He  meant  to 
telegraph  to  the  young  gentleman  that  he  was  loyal  and 
true  to  certain  gold  pieces  that  had  been  given  him,  and 
that  in  the  right  place  and  at  the  right  time  he  should 
prove  so.  Why  was  he  thus  suspected?  Why  was  he  not 
understood  ? 

"A  thowt  I  see  'un,  then,"  muttered  the  Bantam,  trying 
a  middle  course. 

This  brought  down  on  him  the  farmer,  who  roared, 
"Thought !  Ye  thought !  What  d'ye  mean  ?  Speak  out, 
and  don't  be  thinkin'.     Thought  ?    What  the  devil's  that  ?" 

"How  could  he  see  who  it  was  on  a  pitch-dark  night?" 
Bichard  put  in. 

"Thought!"  the  farmer  bellowed  louder.  "Thought — 
Devil  take  ye,  when  ye  took  yer  oath  on't.  Hulloa !  What 
are  ye  screwin'  yer  eye  at  Mr.  Feverel  for? — I  say,  young 
gentleman,  have  you  spoken  to  this  chap  before  now  ?" 

"I  ?"  replied  Bichard.     "I  have  not  seen  him  before." 

Farmer  Blaize  grasped  the  two  arms  of  the  chair  he  sat 
on,  and  glared  his  doubts. 

"Come,"  said  he  to  the  Bantam,  "speak  out,  and  ha' 
done  wi't.  Say  what  ye  saw,  and  none  o'  yer  thoughts. 
Damn  yer  thoughts !  Ye  saw  Tom  Bakewell  fire  that  there 
rick!"  The  farmer  pointed  at  some  musk-pots  in  the 
window.  "What  business  ha'  you  to  be  a-thinkin'  ?  You're 
a  witness?  Thinkin'  an't  ev'dence.  What'll  ye  say  to- 
morrow before  magistrate !  Mind !  what  you  say  to-day, 
you'll  stick  by  to-morrow." 

Thus  adjured,  the  Bantam  hitched  his  breech.  What 
on  earth  the  young  gentleman  meant  he  was  at  a  loss  to 
speculate.  He  could  not  believe  that  the  young  gentleman 
wanted  to  be  transported,  but  if  he  had  been  paid  to  help 
that,  why,  he  would.  And  considering  that  this  day's 
evidence  rather  bound  him  down  to  the  morrow's,  he  de- 
termined, after  much  ploughing  and  harrowing  through 
obstinate  shocks  of  hair,  to  be  not  altogether  positive  as 
to  the  person.  It  is  possible  that  he  became  thereby  more 
a  mansion  of  truth  than  he  previously  had  been;  for  the 


58       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

night,  as  he  said,  was  so  dark  that  you  could  not  see  your 
hand  before  your  face;  and  though,  as  he  expressed  it, 
you  might  be  mortal  sure  of  a  man,  you  could  not  identify 
him  upon  oath,  and  the  party  he  had  taken  for  Tom 
Bakewell,  and  could  have  sworn  to,  might  have  been  the 
young  gentleman  present,  especially  as  he  was  ready  to 
swear  it  upon  oath. 

So  ended  the  Bantam. 

No  sooner  had  he  ceased,  than  Farmer  Blaize  jumped 
up  from  his  chair,  and  made  a  tine  effort  to  lift  him  out 
of  the  room  from  the  point  of  his  toe.  He  failed,  and 
sank  back  groaning  with  the  pain  of  the  exertion  and 
disappointment. 

"They're  liars,  every  one!"  he  cried.  "Liars,  perj'rers, 
bribers,  and  c'rrupters! — Stop!"  to  the  Bantam,  who  was 
slinking  away.  "You've  done  for  yerself  already!  You 
swore  to  it!" 

"A  din't!"  said  the  Bantam,  doggedly. 

"You  swore  to't,"  the  fanner  vociferated  afresh. 

The  Bantam  played  a  tune  upon  the  handle  of  the  door, 
and  still  affirmed  that  he  did  not;  a  double  contradiction 
at  which  the  farmer  absolutely  raged  in  his  chair,  and  was 
hoarse,  as  he  called  out  a  third  time  that  the  Bantam  had 
sworn  to  it. 

"Noa!"  said  the  Bantam,  ducking  his  poll.  "Noa!"  he 
repeated  in  a  lower  note;  and  then,  while  a  sombre  grin 
betokening  idiotic  enjoyment  of  his  profound  casuistical 
quibble  worked  at  his  jaw: 

"Not  up'n  o-ath!"  he  added,  with  a  twitch  of  the 
shoulder  and  an  angular  jerk  of  the  elbow. 

Farmer  Blaize  looked  vacantly  at  Richard,  as  if  to  ask 
him  what  he  thought  of  England's  peasantry  after  the 
sample  they  had  there.  Richard  would  have  preferred  not 
to  laugh,  but  his  dignity  gave  way  to  his  sense  of  the 
ludicrous,  and  he  let  fly  a  shout.  The  farmer  was  in  no 
laughing  mood.  Lie  turned  a  wide  eye  back  to  the  door. 
"Lucky  forni."  ho  exclaimed,  seeing  the  Bantam  had 
vanished,  for  his  fingers  itched  to  break  that  stubborn 
head.  He  grew  very  puffy,  and  addressed  Richard 
solemnly: 

"Now,  look  ye  here,  Mr.  Feverel!  You've  been  a-tam- 
pering  with  my  witness.    It's  no  use  denyin'!  I  say  y'  'ave, 


A  FINE  DISTINCTION  59 

sir !  You,  or  some  of  ye.  I  don't  care  about  no  Feverel ! 
My  witness  there  has  been  bribed.  The  Bantam's  been 
bribed,"  and  he  shivered  his  pipe  with  an  energetic  thump 
on  the  table — "bribed!  I  knows  it!  I  could  swear 
to't !" 

"Upon  oath?"  Richard  inquired,  with  a  grave  face. 

"Ay,  upon  oath!"  said  the  farmer,  not  observing  the 
impertinence. 

"I'd  take  my  Bible  oath  on't!  He's  been  corrupted, 
my  principal  witness !  Oh,  it's  dam  cunnin',  but  it  won't 
do  the  trick.  I'll  transpoort  Tom  Bakewell,  sure  as  a  gun. 
He  shall  travel,  that  man  shall.  Sorry  for  you,  Mr. 
Feverel — sorry  you  haven't  seen  how  to  treat  me  proper — 
you,  or  yours.  Money  won't  do  everything — no !  it  won't. 
It'll  c'rrupt  a  witness,  but  it  won't  clear  a  felon.  I'd  ha' 
'scused  you,  sir!  You're  a  boy  and'll  learn  better.  I 
asked  no  more  than  payment  and  a  'pology;  and  that  I'd 
ha'  taken  content — always  provided  my  witnesses  weren't 
tampered  with.     Now  you  must  stand  yer  luck,  all  o'  ye." 

Richard  stood  up  and  replied,  "Very  well,  Mr.  Blaize." 

"And  if,"  continued  the  farmer,  "Tom  Bakewell  don't 
drag  you  into't  after  'm,  why,  you're  safe,  as  I  hope  ye'll 
be,  sincere!" 

"It  was  not  in  consideration  of  my  own  safety  that 
I  sought  this  interview  with  you,"  said  Richard,  head 
erect. 

"Grant  ye  that,"  the  farmer  responded.  "Grant  ye 
that !  Yer  bold  enough,  young  gentleman — comes  of  the 
blood  that  should  be !  If  y'  had  only  ha'  spoke  trewth ! — 
I  believe  yer  father — believe  every  word  he  said.  I  do 
wish  I  could  ha'  said  as  much  for  Sir  Austin's  son  and 
heir." 

"What!"  cried  Richard,  with  an  astonishment  hardly 
to  be  feigned,  "you  have  seen  my  father?" 

But  Farmer  Blaize  had  now  such  a  scent  for  lies  that 
he  could  detect  them  where  they  did  not  exist,  and  mum- 
bled gruffly, 

"Ay,  we  knows  all  about  that !" 

The  boy's  perplexity  saved  him  from  being  irritated. 
Who  could  have  told  his  father?  An  old  fear  of  his 
father  came  upon  him,  and  a  touch  of  an  old  inclination 
to  revolt. 


60       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"My  father  knows  of  this?"  said  he,  very  loudly,  and 
staring,  as  he  spoke,  right  through  the  farmer.  "Who  has 
played  me  false?  Who  would  betray  me  to  him?  It  was 
Austin!  No  one  knew  it  but  Austin.  Yes,  and  it  was 
Austin  who  persuaded  me  to  come  here  and  submit  to 
these  indignities.  Why  couldn't  he  be  open  with  me?  I 
shall  never  trust  him  again!" 

"And  why  not  you  with  me,  young  gentleman?"  said  the 
farmer.     "I  sh'd  trust  you  if  ye  had." 

Kiehard  did  not  see  the  analogy.  He  bowed  stiffly  and 
bade  him  good  afternoon. 

Farmer  Elaize  pulled  the  bell.  "  'Company  the  young 
gentleman  out,  Lucy,"  he  waved  to  the  little  damsel  in 
the  doorway.  "Do  the  honours.  And,  Mr.  Richard,  ye 
might  ha'  made  a  friend  o'  me,  sir,  and  it's  not  too  lato 
so  to  do.  I'm  not  cruel,  but  I  hate  lies.  I  whipped  my 
boy  Tom,  bigger  than  you,  for  not  bein'  above  board, 
only  yesterday, — ay!  made  'un  stand  within  swing  o' 
this  chair,  and  take's  measure.  Now,  if  ye'll  come  down 
to  me,  and  speak  trewth  before  the  trial — if  it's  only  five 
minutes  before't;  or  if  Sir  Austin,  who's  a  gentleman,  '11 
say  there's  been  no  tamperin'  with  any  o'  my  witnesses, 
his  word  for't — well  and  good!  I'll  do  my  best  to  help 
off  Tom  Bakewell.  And  I'm  glad,  young  gentleman, 
you've  got  a  conscience  about  a  poor  man,  though  he's  a 
villain.     Good  afternoon,  sir." 

Richard  marched  hastily  out  of  the  room,  and  through 
the  garden,  never  so  much  as  deigning  a  glance  at  his 
wistful  little  guide,  who  hung  at  the  garden  gate  to  watch 
him  up  the  lane,  wondering  a  world  of  fancies  about  the 
handsome  proud  boy. 


CHAPTER    X 

RICHARD    PASSES    THROUGH    HIS    PRELIMINARY 
ORDEAL,    AND    IS    THE    OCCASION    OF    AN    APHORISM 

To  have  determined  upon  an  act  something  akin  to 
heroism  in  its  way,  and  to  have  fulfilled  it  by  lying  heart- 
ily, and  so  subverting  the  whole  structure  built  by  good 
resolution,  seems  a  sad  downfall  if  we  forget  what  human 


THE  PRELIMINARY  ORDEAL  61 

nature,  in  its  green  weedy  spring,  is  composed  of.  Young 
Richard  had  quitted  his  cousin  Austin  fully  resolved  to  do 
his  penance  and  drink  the  bitter  cup;  and  he  had  drunk 
it;  drained  many  cups  to  the  dregs;  and  it  was  to  no  pur- 
pose. Still  they  floated  before  him,  brimmed,  trebly  bit- 
ter. Away  from  Austin's  influence,  he  was  almost  the 
same  boy  who  had  slipped  the  guinea  into  Tom  Bakewell's 
hand,  and  the  lucifers  into  Farmer  Blaize's  rick.  For 
good  seed  is  long  ripening;  a  good  boy  is  not  made  in  a 
minute.  Enough  that  the  seed  was  in  him.  He  chafed 
on  his  road  to  Raynham  at  the  scene  he  had  just  endured, 
and  the  figure  of  Belthorpe's  fat  tenant  burnt  like  hot 
copper  on  the  tablet  of  his  brain,  insufferably  condescend- 
ing, and,  what  was  worse,  in  the  right.  Richard,  obscured 
as  his  mind's  eye  was  by  wounded  pride,  saw  that  clearly, 
and  hated  his  enemy  for  it  the  more. 

Heavy  Benson's  tongue  was  knelling  dinner  as  Richard 
arrived  at  the  Abbey.  He  hurried  up  to  his  room  to  dress. 
Accident,  or  design,  had  laid  the  book  of  Sir  Austin's 
aphorisms  open  on  the  dressing-table.  Hastily  combing 
his  hair,  Richard  glanced   down   and  read — 

"The  Dog  returneth  to  his  vomit:  the  Liar  must  eat 
his  Lie." 

Underneath  was  interjected  in  pencil:  ''The  Devil's 
mouthful !" 

Young  Richard  ran  downstairs  feeling  that  his  father 
had  struck  him  in  the  face. 

Sir  Austin  marked  the  scarlet  stain  on  his  son's  cheek- 
bones. He  sought  the  youth's  eye,  but  Richard  would  not 
look,  and  sat  conning  his  plate,  an  abject  copy  of  Adrian's 
succulent  air  at  that  employment.  How  could  he  pretend 
to  the  relish  of  an  epicure  when  he  was  painfully  endeav- 
ouring to  masticate  The  Devil's  mouthful? 

Heavy  Benson  sat  upon  the  wretched  dinner.  Hippias, 
usually  the  silent  member,  as  if  awakened  by  the  un- 
natural stillness,  became  sprightly,  like  the  goatsucker 
owl  at  night,  and  spoke  much  of  his  book,  his  digestion, 
and  his  dreams,  and  was  spared  both  by  Algernon  and 
Adrian.  One  inconsequent  dream  he  related,  about  fancy- 
ing himself  quite  young  and  rich,  and  finding  himself 
suddenly  in  a  field  cropping  razors  around  him,  when, 
just   as   he  had,   by   steps   dainty   as  those   of   a   French 


62        THE  ORDEAL  OE  RICHARD  EEVEREL 

dancing-master,  reached  the  middle,  he  to  his  dismay  be- 
held a  path  clear  of  the  bloodthirsty  steel-crop,  which  he 
might  have  taken  at  lirst  had  he  looked  narrowly;  and 
there  he  was. 

llippias's  hrethrcn  regarded  him  with  eyes  that  plainly 
said  they  wished  he  had  remained  there.  Sir  Austin, 
however,  drew  forth  his  note-book,  and  jotted  down  a  re- 
flection. A  composer  of  aphorisms  can  pluck  blossoms 
even  from  a  razor-crop.  Was  not  llippias's  dream  the 
very  counterpart  of  Richard's  position?  lie,  had  he 
looked  narrowly,  might  have  taken  the  clear  path:  he, 
too,  had  been  making  dainty  steps  till  he  was  surrounded 
by  the  grinning  blades.  And  from  that  text  Sir  Austin 
preached  to  his  son  when  they  were  alone.  Little  Clare 
was  still  too  unwell  to  be  permitted  to  attend  the  dessert, 
and  father  and  son  were  soon  closeted  together. 

It  was  a  strange  meeting.  They  seemed  to  have  been 
separated  so  long.  The  father  took  his  son's  hand;  they 
sat  without  a  word  passing  between  them.  Silence  said 
most.  The  boy  did  not  understand  his  father:  his  father 
frequently  thwarted  him :  at  times  he  thought  his  father 
foolish:  but  that  paternal  pressure  of  his  hand  was  elo- 
quent to  him  of  how  warmly  he  was  beloved.  He  tried 
once  or  twice  to  steal  his  hand  away,  conscious  it  was 
melting  him.  The  spirit  of  his  pride,  and  old  rebellion, 
whispered  him  to  be  hard,  unbending,  resolute.  Hard 
he  had  entered  his  father's  study:  hard  he  had  met  his 
father's  eyes.  He  could  not  meet  them  now.  His  father 
sat  beside  him  gently;  with  a  manner  that  was  almost 
meekness,  so  he  loved  this  boy.  The  poor  gentleman's 
lips  moved.     He  was  praying  internally  to  God  for  him. 

By  degrees  an  emotion  awoke  in  the  boy's  bosom.  Love 
is  that  blessed  wand  which  wins  the  waters  from  the  hard- 
ness of  the  heart.  Richard  fought  against  it,  for  the 
dignity  of  old  rebellion.  The  tears  would  come;  hot  and 
struggling  over  the  dams  of  pride.  Shamefully  fast  they 
began  to  fall.  He  could  no  longer  conceal  them,  or  check 
the  sobs.  Sir  Austin  drew  him  nearer  and  nearer,  till 
the  beloved  head  was  on  his  breast. 

An  hour  afterwards,  Adrian  Harley,  Austin  Wentworth, 
and  Algernon  Eeverel  were  summoned  to  the  baronet's 
study. 


THE  PRELIMINARY  ORDEAL  63 

Adrian  came  last.  There  was  a  style  of  affable  omnipo- 
tence about  the  wise  youth  as  he  slung  himself  into  a 
chair,  and  made  an  arch  of  the  points  of  his  fingers, 
through  which  to  gaze  on  his  blundering  kinsmen.  Care- 
less as  one  may  be  whose  sagacity  has  foreseen,  and  whose 
benevolent  efforts  have  forestalled,  the  point  of  danger  at 
the  threshold,  Adrian  crossed  his  legs,  and  only  intruded 
on  their  introductory  remarks  so  far  as  to  hum  half  au- 
dibly at  intervals — 

"Ripton  and  Richard  were  two  pretty  men," 

in  parody  of  the  old  ballad.  Young  Richard's  red  eyes, 
and  the  baronet's  ruffled  demeanour,  told  him  that  an  ex- 
planation had  taken  place,  and  a  reconciliation.  That  was 
well.  The  baronet  would  now  pay  cheerfully.  Adrian 
summed  and  considered  these  matters,  and  barely  listened 
when  the  baronet  called  attention  to  what  he  had  to  say: 
which  was  elaborately  to  inform  all  present,  what  all  pres- 
ent very  well  knew,  that  a  rick  had  been  fired,  that  his 
son  was  implicated  as  an  accessory  to  the  fact,  that  the 
perpetrator  was  now  imprisoned,  and  that  Richard's  fam- 
ily were,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  bound  in  honour  to  do  their 
utmost  to  effect  the  man's  release. 

Then  the  baronet  stated  that  he  had  himself  been  down 
to  Belthorpe,  his  son  likewise:  and  that  he  had  found 
every  disposition  in  Blaize  to  meet  his  wishes. 

The  lamp  which  ultimately  was  sure  to  be  lifted  up  to 
illumine  the  acts  of  this  secretive  race  began  slowly  to 
dispread  its  rays;  and,  as  statement  followed  statement, 
they  saw  that  all  had  known  of  the  business:  that  all 
had  been  down  to  Belthorpe :  all  save  the  wise  youth 
Adrian,  who,  with  due  deference  and  a  sarcastic  shrug, 
objected  to  the  proceeding,  as  putting  them  in  the  hands 
of  the  man  Blaize.  His  wisdom  shone  forth  in  an  oration 
so  persuasive  and  aphoristic  that  had  it  not  been  based 
on  a  plea  against  honour,  it  would  have  made  Sir  Austin 
waver.  But  its  basis  was  expediency,  and  the  baronet 
had  a  better  aphorism  of  his  own  to  confute  him  with. 

"Expediency  is  man's  wisdom,  Adrian  Harley.  Doing 
right  is  God's." 

Adrian  curbed  his  desire  to  ask  Sir  Austin  whether  an 


M       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

attempt  to  counteract  the  just  working  of  the  law  was 
doing  right.  The  direct  application  of  an  aphorism  was 
unpopular  at  Raynham. 

"I  am  to  understand  then,"  said  he,  "that  Blaize  con- 
sents not  to  press  the  prosecution." 

"Of  course  he  won't,"  Algernon  remarked.  "Confound 
him!  he'll  have  his  money,  and  what  does  he  want 
besides?" 

"These  agricultural  gentleman  are  delicate  customers 
to  deal  with.    However,  if  he  really  consents" 

"I  have  his  promise,"  said  the  haronet,  fondling  his  son. 

Young  Richard  looked  up  to  his  father,  as  if  he  wished 
to  speak.  He  said  nothing,  and  Sir  Austin  took  it  as  a 
mute  reply  to  his  caresses,  and  caressed  him  the  more. 
Adrian  perceived  a  reserve  in  the  boy's  manner,  and  as 
he  was  not  quite  satisfied  that  his  chief  should  suppose 
him  to  have  been  the  only  idle,  and  not  the  most  acute 
and  vigilant  member  of  the  family,  he  commenced  a 
cross-examination  of  him  by  asking  who  had  last  spoken 
with  the  tenant  of  Belthorpe? 

"I  think  I  saw  him  last,"  murmured  Richard,  and  relin- 
quished his  father's  hand. 

Adrian  fastened  on  his  prey.  "And  left  him  with  a 
distinct  and  satisfactory  assurance  of  his  amicable  inten- 
tions?" 

"No,"  said  Richard. 

"Not?"  the  Feverels  joined  in  astounded  chorus. 

Richard  sidled  away  from  his  father,  and  repeated  a 
shamefaced  "No." 

"Was  he  hostile?"  inquired  Adrian,  smoothing  his 
palms,  and  smiling. 

"Yes,"  the  boy  confessed. 

Here  was  quite  another  view  of  their  position.  Adrian, 
generally  patient  of  results,  triumphed  strongly  at  having 
evoked  it,  and  turned  upon  Austin  Wentworth,  reproving 
him  for  inducing  the  boy  to  go  down  to  Belthorpe.  Austin 
looked  grieved.  He  feared  that  Richard  had  failed  in 
his  good  resolve. 

"I   thought  it  his  duty  to  go,"  he  observed. 

"It  was!"  said  the  baronet,  emphatically. 

"And  you  see  what  comes  of  it,  sir,"  Adrian  struck  in. 
"These  agricultural  gentlemen,  I  repeat,  are  delicate  cus- 


THE  PRELIMINARY  ORDEAL  65 

tomers  to  deal  with.  For  my  part  I  would  prefer  being 
in  the  hands  of  a  policeman.  We  are  decidedly  collared 
by  Blaize.  What  were  his  words,  Ricky?  Give  it  in  his 
own  Doric." 

''He  said  he  would  transport  Tom  Bakewell." 

Adrian  smoothed  his  palms,  and  smiled  again.  Then 
they  could  afford  to  defy  Mr.  Blaize,  he  informed  them 
significantly,  and  made  once  more  a  mysterious  allusion 
to  the  Punic  elephant,  bidding  his  relatives  be  at  peace. 
They  were  attaching,  in  his  opinion,  too  much  importance 
to  Richard's  complicity.  The  man  was  a  fool,  and  a  very 
extraordinary  arsonite,  to  have  an  accomplice  at  all.  It 
was  a  thing  unknown  in  the  annals  of  rick-burning. 
But  one  would  be  severer  than  law  itself  to  say  that  a  boy 
of  fourteen  had  instigated  to  crime  a  full-grown  man. 
At  that  rate  the  boy  was  "father  of  the  man'  with  a  ven- 
geance, and  one  might  hear  next  that  "the  baby  was 
father  of  the  boy."  They  would  find  common  sense  a  more 
benevolent  ruler  than  poetical  metaphysics. 

When  he  had  done,  Austin,  with  his  customary  direct- 
ness, asked  him  what  he  meant. 

"I  confess,  Adrian,"  said  the  baronet,  hearing  him  ex- 
postulate with  Austin's  stupidity,  "I  for  one  am  at  a  loss. 
I  have  heard  that  this  man,  Bakewell,  chooses  voluntarily 
not  to  inculpate  my  son.  Seldom  have  I  heard  anything 
that  so  gratified  me.  It  is  a  view  of  innate  nobleness  in 
the  rustic's  character  which  many  a  gentleman  might 
take  example  from.  We  are  bound  to  do  our  utmost  for 
the  man."  And,  saying  that  he  should  pay  a  second  visit 
to  Belthorpe,  to  inquire  into  the  reasons  for  the  farmer's 
sudden  exposition  of  vindictiveness,  Sir  Austin  rose. 

Before  he  left  the  room,  Algernon  asked  Richard  if  the 
farmer  had  vouchsafed  any  reasons,  and  the  boy  then 
spoke  of  the  tampering  with  the  witnesses,  and  the  Ban- 
tam's "Not  upon  oath!"  which  caused  Adrian  to  choke 
with  laughter.  Even  the  baronet  smiled  at  so  cunning 
a  distinction  as  that  involved  in  swearing  a  thing,  and  not 
swearing  it  upon  oath. 

"How  little,"  he  exclaimed,  "does  one  yeoman  know 
another!  To  elevate  a  distinction  into  a  difference  is  the 
natural  action  of  their  minds.  I  will  point  that  out  to 
Blaize.    He  shall  see  that  the  idea  is  native  born." 


66       THE  ORDEAL  OF  EICHAED   FEVEKEL 

Richard  saw  his  father  go  forth.  Adrian,  too,  was  ill 
at  case. 

'This  trotting  down  to  Belthorpe  spoils  all,"  said  he. 
"The  alTair  wmdd  pass  over  to-morrow — Blaize  has  no 
witnesses.  The  old  rascal  is  only  standing  out  for  more 
money." 

"No,  he  isn't,"  Richard  corrected  him.  "It's  not  that. 
I'm  sure  he  believes  his  witnesses  have  been  tampered 
with,  as  he  calls  it." 

"What  if  they  have,  boy?"  Adrian  put  it  boldly.  "The 
ground  is  cut    from  under  his  feet." 

"Blaize  told  me  that  if  my  father  would  give  his  word 
there  had  boon  nothing  of  the  sort,  he  would  take  it.  My 
father  will  give  his  word." 

"Thou,"  said  Adrian,  "you  had  better  stop  him  from 
going  down." 

Austin  looked  at  Adrian  keenly,  and  questioned  him 
whether  he  thought  the  farmer  was  justified  in  his  sus- 
picions. The  wise  youth  was  not  to  be  entrapped.  He 
had  only  been  given  to  understand  that  the  witnesses  were 
tolerably  unstable,  and,  like  the  Bantam,  ready  to  swear 
lustily,  but  not  upon  the  Book.  Sow  given  to  understand, 
he  chose  not  to  explain,  but  he  reiterated  that  the  chief 
should  not  be  allowed  to  go  down  to  Belthorpe. 

Sir  Austin  was  in  the  lane  leading  to  the  farm  when 
he  heard  steps  of  some  one  running  behind  him.  It  was 
dark,  and  he  shook  off  the  hand  that  laid  hold  of  his  cloak, 
roughly,  not  recognizing  his  son. 

"It's  I,  sir,"  said  Richard  panting.  "Pardon  me.  You 
mustn't  go  in  there." 

"Why  not?"  said  the  baronet,  putting  his  arm  about 
him. 

"Not  now,"  continued  the  boy.  "I  will  tell  you  all  to- 
night. I  must  see  the  farmer  myself.  It  was  my  fault, 
sir.  I — J  lied  to  him — the  Liar  must  cat  his  Lie.  Oh, 
forgive  me  for  disgracing  you,  sir.  I  did  it — 1  hope  I  did 
it  to  save  Tom  Bakewell.  Let  me  go  in  alone,  and  speak 
the  truth." 

"Go,  and  I  will  wait  for  you  here,"  said  his  father. 

The  wind  that  bowed  the  old  elms,  and  shivered  the 
dead  leaves  in  the  air,  had  a  voice  and  a  meaning  for  the 
baronet    during    that    half-hour's    lonely    pacing    up    and 


LAST  ACT  OF  THE  COMEDY  67 

down  under  the  darkness,  awaiting  his  boy's  return.  The 
solemn  gladness  of  his  heart  gave  nature  a  tongue. 
Through  the  desolation  flying  overhead — the  wailing  of 
the  Mother  of  Plenty  across  the  bare-swept  land — he 
caught  intelligible  signs  of  the  beneficent  order  of  the 
universe,  from  a  heart  newly  confirmed  in  its  grasp  of 
the  principle  of  human  goodness,  as  manifested  in  the 
dear  child  who  had  just  left  him;  confirmed  in  its  belief 
in  the  ultimate  victory  of  good  within  us,  without  which 
nature  has  neither  music  nor  meaning,  and  is  rock,  stone, 
tree,  and  nothing  more. 

In  the  dark,  the  dead  leaves  beating  on  his  face,  he  had 
a  word  for  his  note-book :  "There  is  for  the  mind  but  one 
grasp  of  happiness :  from  that  uppermost  pinnacle  of  wis- 
dom, whence  we  see  that  this  world  is  well  designed." 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN  WHICH  THE  LAST  ACT  OF  THE  BAKEWELL 
COMEDY  IS  CLOSED  IX  A  LETTER 

Of  all  the  chief  actors  in  the  Bakewell  Comedy,  Master 
Eipton  Thompson  awaited  the  fearful  morning  which  was 
to  decide  Tom's  fate,  in  dolefullest  mood,  and  suffered 
the  gravest  mental  terrors.  Adrian,  on  parting  with  him, 
had  taken  casual  occasion  to  speak  of  the  position  of  the 
criminal  in  modern  Europe,  assuring  him  that  Inter- 
national Treaty  now  did  what  Universal  Empire  had  afore- 
time done,  and  that  among  Atlantic  barbarians  now,  as 
among  the  Scythians  of  old,  an  offender  would  find  pre- 
carious refuge  and  an  emissary  haunting  him. 

In  the  paternal  home,  under  the  roofs  of  Law,  and 
removed  from  the  influence  of  his  conscienceless  young 
chief,  the  staggering  nature  of  the  act  he  had  put  his 
hand  to,  its  awful  felonious  aspect,  overwhelmed  Eipton. 
He  saw  it  now  for  the  first  time.  "Why,  it's  next  to  mur- 
der!" he  cried  out  to  his  amazed  soul,  and  wandered  about 
the  house  with  a  prickly  skin.  Thoughts  of  America,  and 
commencing  life  afresh  as  an  innocent  gentleman,  had 
crossed   his   disordered   brain.      He   wrote   to   his   friend 


Gs       THE  ORDEAL  OF   RICHARD  FEVEREL 

Richard,  proposing  to  collect  disposable  funds,  and  em- 
bark, in  case  of  Tom's  breaking  his  word,  or  of  accidental 
discovery.  He  dared  not  confide  the  secret  to  his  family, 
as  his  leader  had  sternly  enjoined  him  to  avoid  any  weak- 
ness of  that  kind;  and,  being  by  nature  honest  and  com- 
municative, the  restriction  was  painful,  and  melancholy 
fell  upon  the  boy.  Mama  Thompson  attributed  it  to  love. 
The  daughters  of  parchment  rallied  him  concerning  Miss 
Clare  Forey.  His  hourly  letters  to  Raynham,  and  silence 
as  to  everything  and  everybody  there,  his  nervousness, 
and  unwonted  propensity  to  sudden  inflammation  of  the 
cheeks,  were  set  down  for  sure  signs  of  the  passion.  Miss 
Letitia  Thompson,  the  pretty  and  least  parchmenty  one, 
destined  by  her  Papa  for  the  heir  of  Raynham,  and  per- 
fectly aware  of  her  brilliant  future,  up  to  which  she  had, 
since  Ripton's  departure,  dressed  and  grimaced,  and 
studied  cadences  (the  latter  with  such  success,  though  not 
yet  fifteen,  that  she  languished  to  her  maid,  and  melted 
the  small  factotum  footman) — Miss  Letty,  whose  insati- 
able thirst  for  intimations  about  the  young  heir  Ripton 
could  not  satisfy,  tormented  him  daily  in  revenge,  and 
once,  quite  unconsciously,  gave  the  lad  a  fearful  turn ;  for 
after  linner,  when  Mr.  Thompson  read  the  paper  by  the 
fire,  preparatory  to  sleeping  at  his  accustomed  post,  and 
Mama  Thompson  and  her  submissive  female  brood  sat 
tasking  the  swift  intricacies  of  the  needle,  and  emulating 
them  with  the  tongue,  Miss  Letty  stole  behind  Ripton's 
chair,  and  introduced  between  him  and  his  book  the  Latin 
initial  h  ?er,  large  and  illuminated,  of  the  theme  she  sup- 
posed to  be  absorbing  him,  as  it  did  herself.  The  unex- 
pected vision  of  this  accusing  Captain  of  the  Alphabet, 
this  resplendent  and  haunting  A,  fronting  him  bodily, 
threw  Ripton  straight  back  in  his  chair,  while  Guilt,  with 
her  ancient  indecision  what  colours  to  assume  on  detec- 
tion, flew  from  red  to  white,  from  white  to  red,  across  his 
fallen  chaps.  Letty  laughed  triumphantly.  Amor,  the 
word  she  had  in  mind,  certainly  has  a  connection  with 
Arson. 

But  the  delivery  of  a  letter  into  Master  Ripton's  hands, 
furnished  her  with  other  and  likelier  appearances  to  study. 
For  scarce  had  Ripton  plunged  his  head  into  the  missive 
than    ho    gave    way    to    violent    transports,    such    as    the 


LAST  ACT  OF  THE  COMEDY  69 

healthy-minded  little  damsel,  for  all  her  languishing  ca- 
dences, deemed  she  really  could  express  were  a  downright 
declaration  to  be  made  to  her.  The  boy  did  not  stop  at 
table.  Quickly  recollecting  the  presence  of  his  family,  he 
rushed  to  his  own  room.  And  now  the  girl's  ingenuity  was 
taxed  to  gain  possession  of  that  letter.  She  succeeded,  of 
course,  she  being  a  huntress  with  few  scruples  and  the 
game  unguarded.  With  the  eyes  of  amazement  she  read 
this  foreign  matter: 

'•'Dear  Eipton, — If  Tom  had  been  committed  I  would 
have  shot  old  Blaize.  Do  you  know  my  father  was  behind 
us  that  night  when  Clare  saw  the  ghost  and  heard  all  we 
said  before  the  fire  burst  out.  It  is  no  use  trying  to  con- 
ceal anything  from  him.  Well  as  you  are  in  an  awful 
state  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it.  After  you  left  Eipton  I 
had  a  conversation  with  Austin  and  he  persuaded  me  to 
go  down  to  old  Blaize  and  ask  him  to  help  off  Tom.  I 
went,  for  I  would  have  done  anything  for  Tom  after  what 
he  said  to  Austin  and  I  defied  the  old  churl  to  do  his 
worst.  Then  he  said  if  my  father  paid  the  money  and  no- 
body had  tampered  with  his  witnesses  he  would  not  mind 
if  Tom  did  get  off  and  he  had  his  chief  witness  in  called 
the  Bantam  very  like  his  master  I  think  and  the  Bantam 
began  winking  at  me  tremendjously  as  you  say,  and  said 
he  had  sworn  he  saw  Tom  Bakewell  but  not  upon  oath. 
He  meant  not  on  the  Bibla  He  could  swear  to  it 
but  not  on  the  Bible.  I  burst  out  laughing  and  you  should 
have  seen  the  rage  old  Blaize  was  in.  It  wa:  splendid 
fun.  Then  we  had  a  consultation  at  home  Austin  Rady 
my  father  Uncle  Algernon  who  has  come  down  to  us 
again  and  your  friend  in  prosperity  and  adversity  R.  D.  F. 
My  father  said  he  would  go  down  to  old  Blaize  and  give 
him  the  word  of  a  gentleman  we  had  not  tampered  with 
his  witnesses  and  when  he  was  gone  we  were  all  talking 
and  Rady  says  he  must  not  see  the  farmer.  I  am  as  certain 
as  I  live  that  it  was  Rady  bribed  the  Bantam.  Well  I  ran 
and  caught  up  with  my  father  and  told  him  not  to  go  in 
to  old  Blaize  but  I  would  and  eat  my  words  and  tell  him 
the  truth.  He  waited  for  me  in  the  lane.  Never  mind 
what  passed  between  me  and  old  Blaize.  He  made  me  beg 
and  pray  of  him  not  to  press  it  against  Tom  and  then  to 


70       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

complete  it  he  brought  in  a  little  girl  a  niece  of  his  and 
says  to  me  she's  your  best  friend  after  all  and  told  me  to 
thank  her.     A  little  girl  twelve  years  of  age.     What  bus- 
iness had  she  to  mix  herself  up  in  my  matters.     Depend 
upon  it  Ripton  wherever  there  is  mischief  there  are  girls 
I  think.     She  had  the  insolence  to  notice  my  face,  and 
ask  me  not  to  be  unhappy.     I  was  polite  of  course  but  I 
would  not  look  at  her.     Well  the  morning  came  and  Tom 
was  had  up  before  Sir  Miles  Papworth.  ,  It  was  Sir  Miles 
gout  gave  us  the  time  or  Tom  would  have  been  had  up  be- 
fore we  could  do  anything.     Adrian  did  not  want  me  to 
go  but  my  father  said  I  should  accompany  him  and  held 
my  hand  all  the  time.     I  shall  be  careful  about  getting 
into  these  scrapes  again.     When  you  have  done  anything 
honourable  you  do  not  mind  but  getting  among  policemen 
and   magistrates   makes   you    ashamed    of   yourself.      Sir 
Miles  was  very  attentive  to  my  father  and  me  and  dead 
against  Tom.     We  sat  beside  him  and  Tom  was  brought 
in.     Sir  Miles  told  my  father  that  if  there  was  one  thing 
that  showed  a  low  villain  it  was  rick-burning.     What  do 
you  think  of  that.     I  looked  him  straight  in  the  face  and 
he  said  to  me  he  was  doing  me  a  service  in  getting  Tom 
committed  and  clearing  the  country  of  such  fellows  and 
Rady  began  laughing.     I  hate  Rady.     My  father  said  his 
son  was  not  in  haste  to  inherit  and  have  estates  of  his 
own  to  watch  and  Sir  Miles  laughed  too.     I  thought  we 
were  discovered  at  first.     Then  they  began  the  examina- 
tion of  Tom.     The  Tinker  was  the  first   witness  and  he 
proved  that  Tom  had  spoken  against  old  Blaize  and  said 
something  about  burning  his  rick.     I  wished  I  had  stood 
in  the  lane   to   Bursley   with   him   alone.      Our   country 
lawyer  we  engaged  for  Tom  cross-questioned  him  and  then 
he  said  he  was  not  ready  to  swear  to  the  exact  words  that 
had  passed  between  him  and   Tom.     I  should  think  not. 
Then  came  another  who  swore  he  had  seen  Tom  lurking 
about  the  fanner's  grounds  that   night.     Then  came  the 
Bantam  and  I  saw  him  look  at  Rady.     I  was  tremend- 
jously  excited  and  my  father  kepi  pressing  niy  hand.     Just 
fancy  my  being  brought  to  feel   that    a  word   from  that 
fellow   would    make    me   miserable   for   life   and   he   must 
perjure  himself  to  help  me.     That  comes  of  giving  way  to 
passion.     My  father  says  when  we  do  that  we  are  calling 


LAST  ACT  OF  THE  COMEDY  71 

in  the  devil  as  doctor.  "Well  the  Bantam  was  told  to  state 
what  he  had  seen  and  the  moment  he  began  Rady  who 
was  close  by  me  began  to  shake  and  he  was  laughing  I 
knew  though  his  face  was  as  grave  as  Sir  Miles.  You 
never  heard  such  a  rigmarole  but  I  could  not  laugh.  He 
said  he  thought  he  was  certain  he  had  seen  somebody  by 
the  rick  and  it  was  Tom  Bakewell  who  was  the  only  man 
he  knew  who  had  a  grudge  against  Farmer  Blaize  and 
if  the  object  had  been  a  little  bigger  he-  would  not  mind 
swearing  to  Tom  and  would  swear  to  him  for  he  was  dead 
certain  it  was  Tom  only  what  he  saw  looked  smaller  and 
it  was  pitch-dark  at  the  time.  He  was  asked  what  time 
it  was  he  saw  the  person  steal  away  from  the  rick  and  then 
he  began  to  scratch  his  head  and  said  supper-time.  Then 
they  asked  what  time  he  had  supper  and  he  said  nine 
o'clock  by  the  clock  and  we  proved  that  at  nine  o'clock 
Tom  was  drinking  in  the  ale-house  with  the  Tinker  at 
Bursley  and  Sir  Miles  swore  and  said  he  was  afraid  he 
could  not  commit  Tom  and  when  he  heard  that  Tom 
looked  up  at  me  and  I  say  he  is  a  noble  fellow  and  no  one 
shall  sneer  at  Tom  while  I  live.  Mind  that.  Well  Sir 
Miles  asked  us  to  dine  with  him  and  Tom  was  safe  and  I 
am  to  have  him  and  educate  him  if  I  like  for  my  servant 
and  I  will.  And  I  will  give  money  to  "his  mother  and  make 
her  rich  and  he  shall  never  repent  he  knew  me.  I  say  Rip. 
The  Bantam  must  have  seen  me.  It  was  when  I  went  to 
stick  in  the  lucifers.  As  we  were  all  going  home  from  Sir 
Miles's  at  night  he  has  lots  of  redfaced  daughters  but  I  did 
not  dance  with  them  though  they  had  music  and  were  full 
of  fun  and  I  did  not  care  to  I  was  so  delighted  and  almost 
let  it  out.  When  we  left  and  rode  home  Rady  said  to  my 
father  the  Bantam  was  not  such  a  fool  as  he  was  thought 
and  my  father  said  one  must  be  in  a  state  of  great  per- 
sonal exaltation  to  apply  that  epithet  to  any  man  and 
Rady  shut  his  mouth  and  I  gave  my  pony  a  clap  of  the 
heel  for  joy.  I  think  my  father  suspects  what  Rady  did 
and  does  not  approve  of  it.  And  he  need  not  have  done 
it  after  all  and  might  have  spoilt  it.  I  have  been  obliged 
to  order  him  not  to  call  me  Ricky  for  he  stops  short  at 
Rick  so  that  everybody  knows  what  he  means.  My  dear 
Austin  is  going  to  South  America.  My  pony  is  in  capital 
condition.    My  father  is  the  cleverest  and  best  man  in  the 


r2       THE  ORDEAL  OE  RICHARD  EEVEREL 

world.  Clare  is  a  little  bettor.  I  am  quite  happy.  I 
hope  we  shall  meet  Boon  my  dear  Old  Rip  and  we  will  not 
pet  into  any  more  treinendjous  scrapes  will  we. — I  re- 
main,   Your  sworn  friend, 

"RlCHAKD   DoKI.V   EKVEREL." 

"P.S.  I  am  to  have  a  nice  River  Yacht.  Good-bye, 
Rip.  Mind  you  learn  to  box.  Mind  you  are  not  to  show 
this  to   any  of  your  friends  on  pain   of  my  displeasure. 

"N.B.  Lady  B.  was  so  angry  when  I  told  her  that  I 
had  not  come  to  her  before.  She  would  'do  anything  in 
the  world  for  me.  I  like  her  next  best  to  my  father  and 
Austin.    Good-bye  old  Rip." 

Poor  little  Letitia,  after  three  perusals  of  this  ingenuous 
epistle,  where  the  laws  of  punctuation  were  so  disre- 
garded, resigned  it  to  one  of  the  pockets  of  her  brother 
Ripton's  best  jacket,  deeply  smitten  with  the  careless  com- 
poser. And  so  ended  the  last  act  of  the  Bakewell  Comedy, 
ojx  which  the  curtain  closes  with  Sir  Austin's  pointing  out 
to  his  friends  the  beneficial  action  of  the  System  in  it 
from  beginning  to  end. 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE   BLOSSOMING  SEASON 

Laying  of  ghosts  is  a  public  duty,  and  as  the  mystery 
of  the  apparition  that  had  frightened  little  Clare  was  never 
solved  on  the  stage  of  events  at  Raynham,  where  dread 
walked  the  Abbey,  let  us  go  behind  the  scones  a  moment. 
Morally  superstitious  as  the  baronet  was,  the  character  of 
his  mind  was  opposed  to  anything  like  spiritual  agency  in 
the  affairs  of  men,  and,  when  the  matter  was  made  clear  to 
him,  it  shook  off  a  weight  of  weakness  and  restored  his 
mental  balance;  so  that  from  this  time  ho  went  about 
more  like  the  man  he  had  once  been,  grasping  more  thor- 
oughly the  great  truth,  that  This  World  is  well  designed. 
Nay,  he  could  laugh  on  hearing  Adrian,  in  reminiscence 


THE  BLOSSOMING  SEASON  73 

of  the  ill  luck  of  one  of  the  family  members  at  its  first 
manifestation,  call  the  uneasy  spirit,  Algernon's  Leg. 

Mrs.   Doria   was   outraged.      She   maintained   that   her 

child  had  seen Not  to  believe  in  it  was  almost  to 

rob  her  of  her  personal  property.  After  satisfactorily 
studying  his  old  state  of  mind  in  her,  Sir  Austin,  moved 
by  pity,  took  her  aside  one  day  and  showed  her  that  her 
Ghost  could  write  words  in  the  flesh.  It  was  a  letter  from 
the  unhappy  lady  who  had  given  Richard  birth, — brief 
cold  lines,  simply  telling  him  his  house  would  be  disturbed 
by  her  no  more.  Cold  lines,  but  penned  by  what  heart- 
broken abnegation,  and  underlying  them  with  what  an- 
guish of  soul !  Like  most  who  dealt  with  him,  Lady 
Eeverel  thought  her  husband  a  man  fatally  stern  and  im- 
placable, and  she  acted  as  silly  creatures  will  act  when 
they  fancy  they  see  a  fate  against  them:  she  neither 
petitioned  for  her  right  nor  claimed  it:  she  tried  to  ease 
her  heart's  yearning  by  stealth,  and  now  she  renounced 
all.  Mrs.  Doria,  not  wanting  in  the  family  tenderness 
and  softness,  shuddered  at  him  for  accepting  the  sacrifice 
so  composedly:  but  he  bade  her  to  think  how  distracting 
to  this  boy  would  be  the  sight  of  such  relations  between 
mother  and  father.  A  few  years,  and  as  man  he  should 
know,  and  judge,  and  love  her.  "Let  this  be  her  penance, 
not  inflicted  by  me!"  Mrs.  Doria  bowed  to  the  System 
for  another,  not  opining  when  it  would  be  her  turn  to  bow 
for  herself. 

Further  behind  the  scenes  we  observe  Rizzio  and  Mary 
grown  older,  much  disenchanted :  she  discrowned,  di- 
shevelled,— he  with  gouty  fingers  on  a  greasy  guitar.  The 
Diaper  Sandoe  of  promise  lends  his  pen  for  small  hires. 
His  fame  has  sunk;  his  bodily  girth  has  sensibly  in- 
creased. What  he  can  do,  and  will  do,  is  still  his 
theme;  meantime  the  juice  of  the  juniper  is  in  requisi- 
tion, and  it  seems  that  those  small  hires  cannot  be  per- 
formed without  it.  Returning  from  her  wretched  journey 
to  her  wretcheder  home,  the  lady  had  to  listen  to  a  mild 
reproof  from  easy-going  Diaper, — a  reproof  so  mild  that 
he  couched  it  in  blank  verse:  for,  seldom  writing  metri- 
cally now,  he  took  to  talking  it.  With  a  fluent  sympathetic 
tear,  he  explained  to  her  that  she  was  damaging  her  inter- 
ests by  these  proceedings;  nor  did  he  shrink  from  under- 


74       THE  ORDEAL  OE  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

taking  to  elucidate  wherefore.  Pluming  a  smile  upon  his 
succulent  mouth,  he  told  her  that  the  poverty  she  lived 
in  was  utterly  unbefitting  her  gentle  nurture,  and  that  he 
had  reason  to  believe — could  assure  her — that  an  an- 
nuity was  on  the  point  of  being  granted  her  by  her  hus- 
band. And  Diaper  broke  his  bud  of  a  smile  into  full 
flower  as  he  delivered  this  information.  She  learnt  that 
he  had  applied  to  her  husband  for  money.  It  is  hard  to 
have  one's  prop  of  self-respect  cut  away  just  when  we  are 
Buffering  a  martyr's  agony  at  the  stake.  There  was  a  live 
minutes  tragic  colloquy  in  the  recesses  behind  the  scenes, 
— totally  tragic  to  Diaper,  who  had  fondly  hoped  to  bask 
in  the  warm  sun  of  that  annuity,  and  re-emerge  from  his 
state  of  grub.  The  lady  then  wrote  the  letter  Sir  Austin 
held  open  to  his  sister.  The  atmosphere  behind  the  scenes 
is  not  wholesome,  so,  having  laid  the  Ghost,  we  will  re- 
turn and  face  the  curtain. 

That  infinitesimal  dose  of  The  World  which  Master 
Ripton  Thompson  had  furnished  to  the  System  with  such 
instantaneous  and  surprising  effect  was  considered  by  Sir 
Austin  to  have  worked  well,  and  to  be  for  the  time  quite 
sufficient,  so  that  Ripton  did  not  receive  a  second  invita- 
tion to  Raynham,  and  Richard  had  no  special  intimate  of 
his  own  age  to  rub  his  excessive  vitality  against,  and 
wanted  none.  His  hands  were  full  enough  with  Tom 
Bakewell.  Moreover,  his  father  and  he  were  heart  in 
heart.  The  boy's  mind  was  opening,  and  turned  to  his 
father  affectionately  reverent.  At  this  period,  when  the 
young  savage  grows  into  higher  influences,  the  faculty 
of  worship  is  foremost  in  him.  At  this  period  Jesuits  will 
stamp  the  future  of  their  chargeling  flocks;  and  all  who 
bring  up  youth  by  a  System,  and  watch  it,  know  that  it 
is  the  malleable  moment.  Boys  possessing  any  mental  or 
moral  force  to  give  them  a  tendency,  then  predestinate 
their  careers;  or,  if  under  supervision,  take  the  impress 
that  is  given  them:  not  often  to  cast  it  off,  and  seldom  to 
cast  it  off  altogether. 

In  Sir  Austin's  Note-book  was  written:  "Between 
Simple  Boyhood  and  Adolescence — The  Blossoming  Sea- 
son— on  the  threshold  of  Puberty,  there  is  one  Unselfish 
Hour — say,  Spiritual  Seed-time." 

He  took  care  that  good  seed  should  be  planted  in  Rich- 


THE  BLOSSOMING  SEASON  75 

ard,  and  that  the  most  fruitful  seed  for  a  youth,  namely, 
Example,  should  be  of  a  kind  to  germinate  in  him  the  love 
of  every  form  of  nobleness. 

"I  am  only  striving  to  make  my  son  a  Christian,"  he 
said,  answering  them  who  persisted  in  expostulating  with 
the  System.  And  to  these  instructions  he  gave  an  aim: 
"First  be  virtuous,"  he  told  his  son,  "and  then  serve  your 
country  with  heart  and  soul."  The  youth  was  instructed 
to  cherish  an  ambition  for  statesmanship,  and  he  and  his 
father  read  history  and  the  speeches  of  British  orators 
to  some  purpose;  for  one  day  Sir  Austin  found  him  lean- 
ing cross-legged,  and  with  his  hand  to  his  chin,  against 
a  pedestal  supporting  the  bust  of  Chatham,  contemplating 
the  hero  of  our  Parliment,  his  eyes  streaming  with  tears. 

People  said  the  baronet  carried  the  principle  of  Example 
so  far  that  he  only  retained  his  boozing  dyspeptic  brother 
Hippias  at  Raynham  in  order  to  exhibit  to  his  son  the 
woeful  retribution  nature  wreaked  upon  a  life  of  indul- 
gence; poor  Hippias  having  now  become  a  walking  com- 
plaint. This  was  unjust,  but  there  is  no  doubt  he  made 
use  of  every  illustration  to  disgust  or  encourage  his  son 
that  his  neighbourhood  afforded  him,  and  did  not  spare  his 
brother,  for  whom  Richard  entertained  a  contempt  in  pro- 
portion to  his  admiration  of  his  father,  and  was  for  fly- 
ing into  penitential  extremes  which  Sir  Austin  had  to 
soften. 

The  boy  prayed  with  his  father  morning  and  night. 

"How  is  it,  sir,"  he  said  one  night,  "I  can't  get  Tom 
Bakewell  to  pray?" 

"Does  he  refuse?"  Sir  Austin  asked. 

"He  seems  to  be  ashamed  to,"  Richard  replied.  "He 
wants  to  know  what  is  the  good  ?  and  I  don't  know  what 
to  tell  him." 

"I'm  afraid  it  has  gone  too  far  with  him,"  said  Sir 
Austin,  "and  until  he  has  had  some  deep  sorrows  he  will 
not  find  the  divine  want  of  Prayer.  Strive,  my  son,  when 
you  represent  the  people,  to  provide  for  their  education. 
He  feels  everything  now  through  a  dull  impenetrable  rind. 
Culture  is  half-way  to  heaven.  Tell  him,  my  son,  should 
he  ever  be  brought  to  ask  how  he  may  know  the  efficacy 
of  Prayer,  and  that  his  prayer  will  be  answered,  tell  him 
(he  quoted  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip)  : 


76       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"  'Who  rises  from  Prayer  a  better  man,  his  prayer  is 
answered.' " 

"  I  will,  sir,"  said  Richard,  and  went  to  sleep  happy. 
Happy  in  his  father  and  in  himself,  the  youth  rum 
lived.  Conscience  was  beginning  to  inhabit  him,  and  he 
carried  some  of  the  freightage  known  to  men;  though  in 
so  crude  a  form  that  it  overweighed  him,  now  on  this 
side,  now  on  that. 

The  wise  youth  Adrian  observed  these  further  progros- 
sionary  developments  in  bis  pupil,  soberly  cynical.  He 
was  under  Sir  Austin's  interdict  not  to  banter  him,  and 
eased  his  acrid  humours  inspired  by  the  sight  of  a  felo- 
nious young  rick-burner  turning  saint,  by  grave  affecta- 
tions of  sympathy  and  extreme  accuracy  in  marking  the 
not  widely-distant  dates  of  his  various  changes.  The 
Bread-and-water  phase  lasted  a  fortnight:  the  Vegetarian 
(an  imitation  of  his  cousin  Austin),  a  little  better  than 
a  month:  the  religious,  somewhat  longer:  the  religious- 
propagandist  (when  he  was  for  converting  the  heathen  of 
Lobourne  and  Bursley,  and  the  domestics  of  the  Abbey, 
including  Tom  Bakewell),  longer  still,  and  hard  to  bear; 
— he  tried  to  convert  Adrian !  All  the  while  Tom  was 
being  exercised  like  a  raw  recruit.  Richard  had  a  drill- 
sergeant  from  the  nearest  barracks  down  for  him,  to  give 
him  a  proper  pride  in  himself,  and  marched  him  to  and 
fro  with  immense  satisfaction,  and  nearly  broke  his  heart 
trying  to  get  the  round-shouldered  rustic  to  take  in  the 
rudiments  of  letters:  for  the  boy  had  unbounded  hopes 
for  Tom,  as  a  hero  in  grain. 

Richard's  pride  also  was  cast  aside.  He  affected  to  be, 
and  really  thought  he  was,  humble.  Whereupon  Adrian, 
as  by  accident,  imparted  to  him  the  fact  that  men  were 
animals,  and  he  an  animal  with  the  rest  of  them. 

"/  an  animal!"  cried  Richard  in  scorn,  and  for  weeks  he 
was  as  troubled  by  this  rudiment  of  self-knowledge  as 
Tom  by  his  letters.  Sir  Austin  had  him  instructed  in 
the  wonders  of  anatomy,  to  restore  his  self-respect. 

Seed-time  passed  thus  smoothly,  and  adolescence  came 
on,  and  his  cousin  Clare  felt  what  it  was  to  be  of  an  op- 
posite sex  to  him.  She  too  was  growing,  but  nobody  cared 
how  she  grew.  Outwardly  even  her  mother  seemed  ab- 
sorbed   in    the    sprouting   of   the   green   off-shoot   of   the 


THE  BLOSSOMING  SEASON"  77 

Feverel  tree,  and  Clare  was  his  handmaiden,  little  marked 
by  him. 

Lady  Blandish  honestly  loved  the  boy.  She  would  tell 
him :  "If  I  had  been  a  girl,  I  would  have  had  you  for  my 
husband."  And  he  with  the  frankness  of  his  years 
would  reply:  "And  how  do  you  know  I  would  have  had 
you?"  causing  her  to  laugh  and  call  him  a  silly  boy, 
for  had  he  not  heard  her  say  she  would  have  had  him? 
Terrible  words,  he  knew  not  then  the  meaning  of ! 

"You  don't  read  your  father's  Book,"  she  said.  Her 
own  copy  was  bound  in  purple  velvet,  gilt-edged,  as  decor- 
ative ladies  like  to  have  holier  books,  and  she  carried  it 
about  with  her,  and  quoted  it,  and  (Adrian  remarked  to 
Mrs.  Doria)  hunted  a  noble  quarry,  and  deliberately  aimed 
at  him  therewith,  which  Mrs.  Doria  chose  to  believe,  and 
regretted  her  brother  would  not  be  on  his  guard. 

"See  here,"  said  Lady  Blandish,  pressing  an  almondy 
finger-nail  to  one  of  the  Aphorisms,  which  instanced  how 
age  and  adversity  must  clay-enclose  us  ere  we  can  effec- 
tually resist  the  magnetism  of  any  human  creature  in  our 
path.     "Can  you  understand  it,  child?" 

Richard   informed   her  that   when   she  read  he  could. 

"Well,  then,  my  squire,"  she  touched  his  cheek  and  ran 
her  fingers  through  his  hair,  "learn  as  quick  as  you  can 
not  to  be  all  hither  and  yon  with  a  hundred  different 
attractions,  as  I  was  before  I  met  a  wise  man  to  guide  me." 

"Is  my  father  very  wise?"  Richard  asked. 

"I  think  so,"  the  lady  emphasized  her  individual  judg- 
ment. 

"Do  you "   Richard  broke  forth,   and  was  stopped 

by  a  beating  of  his  heart. 

"Do  I — what?"  she  calmly  queried. 

"I  was  going  to  say,  do  you — I  mean,  I  love  him  so 
much." 

Lady  Blandish  smiled  and  slightly  coloured. 

They  frequently  approached  this  theme,  and  always  re- 
treated from  it;  always  with  the  same  beating  of  heart  to 
Richard,  accompanied  by  the  sense  of  a  growing  mystery, 
which,   however,   did  not   as  yet  generally   disturb   him. 

Life  was  made  very  pleasant  to  him  at  Raynham,  as  it 
was  part  of  Sir  Austin's  principle  of  education  that  his 
boy  should  be  thoroughly  joyous  and  happy;  and  when- 


78       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

ever  Adrian  sent  in  a  satisfactory  report  of  his  pupil's 
advancement,  which  he  did  pretty  liberally,  diversions 
were  planned,  just  as  prizes  are  given  to  diligent  school- 
boys, and  Richard  was  supposed  to  have  all  his  desires 
gratified  while  he  attended  to  his  studies.  The  System 
nourished.  Tall,  strong,  bloomingly  healthy,  he  took  the 
lead  of  his  companions  on  land  and  water,  and  had  more 
than  one  bondsman  in  his  service  besides  Ripton  Thomp- 
son—the boy  without  a  Destiny!  Perhaps  the  boy  with  a 
Destiny  was  growing  up  a  trifle  too  conscious  of  it.  His 
generosity^  to  his  occasional  companions  was  princely,  but 
was  exercised  something  too  much  in  the  manner  of  a 
prince;  and,  notwithstanding  his  contempt  for  baseness, 
he  would  overlook  that  more  easily  than  an  offence  to  his 
pride,  which  demanded  an  utter  servility  when  it  had  once 
been  rendered  susceptible.  If  Richard  had  his  followers 
he  had  also  his  feuds.  The  Papworths  were  as  subservient 
as  Ripton,  but  young  Ralph  Morton,  the  nephew  of  Mr. 
Morton,  and  a  match  for  Richard  in  numerous  promising 
qualities,  comprising  the  noble  science  of  fisticuffs,  this 
youth  spoke  his  mind  too  openly,  and  moreover  would  not 
be  snubbed.  There  was  no  middle  course  for  Richard's 
comrades  between  high  friendship  or  absolute  slavery.  He 
was  deficient  in  those  cosmopolite  habits  and  feelings 
which  enable  boys  and  men  to  hold  together  without  car- 
ing much  for  each  other;  and,  like  every  insulated  mortal, 
he  attributed  the  deficiency,  of  which  he  was  quite  aware, 
to  the  fact  of  his  possessing  a  superior  nature.  Young 
Ralph  was  a  lively  talker:  therefore,  argued  Richard's 
vanity,  he  had  no  intellect.  He  was  affable :  therefore  he 
was  frivolous.  The  women  liked  him:  therefore  he  was 
a  butterfly.  In  fine,  young  Ralph  was  popular,  and  our 
superb  prince,  denied  the  privilege  of  despising,  ended  by 
detesting  him. 

Early  in  the  days  of  their  contention  for  leadership, 
Richard  saw  the  absurdity  of  afl'ecting  to  scorn  his  rival. 
Ralph  was  an  Eton  boy,  and  hence,  being  robust,  a  swim- 
mer and  a  cricketer.  A  swimmer  and  a  cricketer  is  no- 
where to  be  scorned  in  youth's  republic.  Finding  that 
manoeuvre  would  not  do,  Richard  was  prompted  once  or 
twice  to  entrench  himself  behind  his  greater  wealth  and 
his  position;  but  he  soon  abandoned  that  also,  partly  be- 


THE  BLOSSOMING  SEASON  79 

cause  his  chilliness  to  ridicule  told  him  he  was  exposing 
himself,  and  chiefly  that  his  heart  was  too  chivalrous. 
And  so  he  was  dragged  into  the  lists  by  Ralph,  and  expe- 
rienced the  luck  of  champions.  For  cricket,  and  for  div- 
ing, Ralph  bore  away  the  belt :  Richard's  middle-stump 
tottered  before  his  ball,  and  he  could  seldom  pick  up  more 
than  three  eggs  under  water  to  Ralph's  half-dozen.  He 
was  beaten,  too,  in  jumping  and  running.  Why  will  silly 
mortals  strive  to  the  painful  pinnacles  of  championship? 
Or  why,  once  having  reached  them,  not  have  the  magna- 
nimity and  circumspection  to  retire  into  private  life 
immediately?  Stung  by  his  defeats,  Richard  sent  one  of 
his  dependent  Papworths  to  Poer  Hall,  with  a  challenge 
to  Ralph  Barthrop  Morton;  matching  himself  to  swim 
across  the  Thames  and  back,  once,  twice,  or  thrice,  within 
a  less  time  than  he,  Ralph  Barthrop  Morton,  would  require 
for  the  undertaking.  It  was  accepted,  and  a  reply  re- 
turned, equally  formal  in  the  trumpeting  of  Christian 
names,  wherein  Ralph  Barthrop  Morton  acknowledged  the 
challenge  of  Richard  Doria  Feverel,  and  was  his  man. 
The  match  came  off  on  a  midsummer  morning,  under  the 
direction  of  Captain  Algernon.  Sir  Austin  was  a  spec- 
tator from  the  cover  of  a  plantation  by  the  river-side,  un- 
known to  his  son,  and,  to  the  scandal  of  her  sex,  Lady 
Blandish  accompanied  the  baronet.  He  had  invited  her 
attendance,  and  she,  obeying  her  frank  nature,  and  know- 
ing what  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip  said  about  prudes,  at  once 
agreed  to  view  the  match,  pleasing  him  mightily.  For  was 
not  here  a  woman  worthy  the  Golden  Ages  of  the  world? 
one  who  could  look  upon  man  as  a  creature  divinely  made, 
and  look  with  a  mind  neither  tempted,  nor  taunted,  by  the 
Serpent!  Such  a  woman  was  rare.  Sir  Austin  did  not 
discompose  her  by  uttering  his  praises.  She  was  con- 
scious of  his  approval  only  in  an  increased  gentleness  of 
manner,  and  something  in  his  voice  and  communications, 
as  if  he  were  speaking  to-  a  familiar,  a  very  high  compli- 
ment from  him.  While  the  lads  were  standing  ready  for 
the  signal  to  plunge  from  the  steep  decline  of  greensward 
into  the  shining  water,  Sir  Austin  called  upon  her  to 
admire  their  beauty,  and  she  did,  and  even  advanced  her 
head  above  his  shoulder  delicately.  In  so  doing,  and  just 
as  the  start  was  given,  a  bonnet  became  visible  to  Richard. 


80       THE  ORDEAL  OE  El  (HARD  EEVEREL 

Young  Ralph  was  heels  in  air  before  ho  moved,  and  then 
he  dropped   like  lead.     He  was  beaten  by  several  lengths. 

The  result  of  the  match  was  unaccountable  to  all  pres- 
ent, and  Richard's  friends  unanimously  pressed  him  to 
plead  a  false  start.  But  though  the  youth,  with  full  con- 
fidence in  his  better  style  and  equal  strength,  had  backed 
himself  heavily  against  his  rival,  and  bad  lost  his  little 
river-yacht  to  Ralph,  he  would  do  nothing  of  the  sort. 
It  was  the  Bonnet  had  beaten  him,  not  Ralph.  The  Bon- 
net, typical  of  the  mystery  that  caused  his  heart  those 
violent  palpitations,  was  his  dear,  detestable  enemy. 

And  now,  as  he  progressed  from  mood  to  mood,  his  am- 
bition turned  towards  a  field  where  Ralph  could  not  rival 
him,  and  where  the  Bonnet  was  etherealized,  and  reigned 
glorious  mistress.  A  check  to  the  pride  of  a  boy  will  fre- 
quently divert  him  to  the  path  where  lie  his  subtlest 
powers.  Richard  gave  up  his  companions,  servile  or  an- 
tagonistic: he  relinquished  the  material  world  to  young 
Ralph,  and  retired  into  himself,  where  he  was  growing  to 
be  lord  of  kingdoms:  where  Beauty  was  his  handmaid,  and 
History  his  minister,  and  Time  his  ancient  harper,  and 
sweet  Romance  his  bride;  where  he  walked  in  a  realm 
vaster  and  more  gorgeous  than  the  great  Orient,  peopled 
with  the  heroes  that  have  been.  For  there  is  no  princely 
wealth,  and  no  loftiest  heritage,  to  equal  this  early  one 
that  is  made  bountifully  common  to  so  many,  when  the 
ripening  blood  has  put  a  spark  to  the  imagination,  and 
the  earth  is  seen  through  rosy  mists  of  a  thousand  fresh- 
awakened  nameless  and  aimless  desires;  panting  for  bliss 
and  taking  it  as  it  comes;  making  of  any  sight  or  sound, 
perforce  of  the  enchantment  they  carry  with  them,  a  key 
to  infinite,  because  innocent,  pleasure.  The  passions  then 
are  gambolling  cubs;  not  the  ravaging  gluttons  they  grow 
to.  They  have  their  teeth  and  their  talons,  but  they 
neither  tear  nor  bite.  They  are  in  counsel  and  fellowship 
with  the  quickened  heart  and  brain.  The  whole  sweet 
system  moves  to  music. 

Something  akin  to  the  indications  of  a  change  in  the 
spirit  of  his  son,  which  were  now  seen,  Sir  Austin  had 
marked  down  to  be  expected,  as  due  to  his  plan.  The 
blushes  of  the  youth,  his  long  vigils,  his  clinging  to. soli- 
tude, his  abstraction,   and  downcast  but  not  melan<«oly 


THE  BLOSSOMING  SEASON  81 

air,  were  matters  for  rejoicing  to  the  prescient  gentleman. 
"For  it  comes,"  said  he  to  Dr.  Clifford  of  Lobourne,  after 
consulting  him  medically  on  the  youth's  behalf  and  being 
assured  of  his  soundness,  "it  comes  of  a  thoroughly  sane 
condition.  The  blood  is  healthy,  the  mind  virtuous: 
neither  instigates  the  other  to  evil,  and  both  are  perfect- 
ing toward  the  flower  of  manhood.  If  he  reach  that  pure 
— in  the  untainted  fulness  and  perfection  of  his  natural 
powers — I  am  indeed  a  happy  father!  But  one  thing  he 
will  owe  to  me :  that  at  one  period  of  his  life  he  knew  para- 
dise, and  could  read  God's  handwriting  on  the  earth! 
Now  those  abominations  whom  you  call  precocious  boys — 
your  little  pet  monsters,  doctor! — and  who  can  wonder 
that  the  world  is  what  it  is?  when  it  is  full  of  them — as 
they  will  have  no  divine  time  to  look  back  upon  in  their 
own  lives,  how  can  they  believe  in  innocence  and  goodness, 
or  be  other  than  sons  of  selfishness  and  the  Devil  ?  But 
my  boy,"  and  the  baronet  dropped  his  voice  to  a  key  that 
was  touching  to  hear,  "my  boy,  if  he  fall,  will  fall  from 
an  actual  region  of  purity.  He  dare  not  be  a  sceptic  as  to 
that.  Whatever  his  darkness,  he  will  have  the  guiding 
light  of  a  memory  behind  him.     So  much  is  secure." 

To  talk  nonsense,  or  poetry,  or  the  dash  between  the  two, 
in  a  tone  of  profound  sincerity,  and  to  enunciate  solemn 
discordances  with  received  opinion  so  seriously  as  to  con- 
vey the  impression  of  a  spiritual  insight,  is  the  peculiar 
gift  by  which  monomaniacs,  having  first  persuaded  them- 
selves, to  contrive  to  influence  their  neighbours,  and 
through  them  to  make  conquest  of  a  good  half  of  the 
world,  for  good  or  for  ill.  Sir  Austin  had  this  gift.  He 
spoke  as  if  he  saw  the  truth,  and,  persisting  in  it  so  long, 
he  was  accredited  by  those  who  did  not  understand  him, 
and  silenced  them  that  did. 

"We  shall  see,"  was  all  the  argument  left  to  Dr.  Clif- 
ford, and  other  unbelievers. 

So  far  certainly  the  experiment  had  succeeded.  A 
comelier,  braver,  better  boy  was  nowhere  to  be  met.  His 
promise  was  undeniable.  The  vessel,  too,  though  it  lay 
now  in  harbour  and  had  not  yet  been  proved  by  the  buffets 
of  the  elements  on  the  great  ocean,  had  made  a  good  trial 
trip,  and  got  well  through  stormy  weather,  as  the  records 
of  the  Bakewell  Comedy  witnessed  to  at  Baynham.     No 


82       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

augury  could  bo  hopefuller.  The  Fates  must  indeed  be 
hard,  the  Ordeal  Bevere,  the  Destiny  dark,  that  could  de- 
Btroy  so  bright  a  Springl  But,  bright  as  it  was,  the  bar- 
onet^ relaxed  nothing  of  his  vigilant  supervision.  He  said 
to  his  intimates:  "Every  act,  every  fostered  inclination, 
almost  every  thought  in  this  Blossoming  Season,  bears 
its  seed  for  the  Future.  The  living  Tree  now  requires 
incessant  watchfulness."  And,  acting  up  to  his  light. 
Sir  Austin  did  watch.  The  youth  submitted  to  an  ex- 
amination every  night  before  he  sought  his  bed;  profess- 
edly to  give  an  account  of  his  studies,  but  really  to 
recapitulate  his  moral  experiences  of  the  day.  He  could 
do  so,  for  he  was  pure.  Any  wildness  in  him  that  his  father 
noted,  any  remoteness  or  richness  of  fancy  in  his  ex- 
pressions, was  set  down  as  incidental  to  the  Blossoming 
Season.  There  is  nothing  like  a  theory  for  binding  the 
wise.  Sir  Austin,  despite  his  rigid  watch  and  ward,  knew 
less  of  his  son  than  the  servant  of  his  household.  And  he 
was  deaf,  as  well  as  blind.  Adrian  thought  it  his  duty  to 
tell  him  that  the  youth  was  consuming  paper.  Lady 
Blandish  likewise  hinted  at  his  mooning  propensities.  Sir 
Austin  from  his  lofty  watch-tower  of  the  System  had 
foreseen  it,  he  said.  But  when  he  came  to  hear  that  the 
youth  was  writing  poetry,  his  wounded  heart  had  its  rea- 
sons for  being  much  disturbed. 

"Surely,"  said  Lady  Blandish,  "you  knew  he  scribbled  V* 

"A  very  different  thing  from  writing  poetry,"  said  the 
baronet.     "No  Feverel  has  ever  written  poetry." 

"I  don't  think  it's  a  sign  of  degeneracy,"  the  lady  re- 
marked.    "He  rhymes  very  prettily  to  me." 

A  London  phrenologist,  and  a  friendly  Oxford  Professor 
of  poetry,  quieted   Sir  Austin's  fears. 

The  phrenologist  said  he  was  totally  deficient  in  the 
imitative  faculty;  and  the  Professor,  that  he  was  equally 
so  in  the  rhythmic,  and  instanced  several  consoling  false 
quantities  in  a  few  effusions  submitted  to  him.  Added 
to  this,  Sir  Austin  told  Lady  Blandish  that  Richard  had, 
at  his  best,  done  what  no  poet  had  ever  been  known  to  be 
capable  of  doing:  he  had,  with  his  own  hands,  and  in  cold 
blood,  committed  his  virgin  manuscript  to  the  flames: 
which  made  Lady  Blandish  sigh  forth,  "Poor  hoy!" 

Killing  one's  darling  child  is  a  painful  imposition.     For 


THE  MAGNETIC  AGE  83 

a  youth  in  his  Blossoming  Season,  who  fancies  himself 
a  poet,  to  be  requested  to  destroy  his  first-born,  without  a 
reason  (though  to  pretend  a  reason  cogent  enough  to  jus- 
tify the  request  were  a  mockery),  is  a  piece  of  abhorrent 
despotism,  and  Richard's  blossoms  withered  under  it.  A 
strange  man  had  been  introduced  to  him,  who  traversed 
and  bisected  his  skull  with  sagacious  stiff  fingers,  and 
crushed  his  soul  while,  in  an  infallible  voice,  declaring 
him  the  animal  he  was :  making  him  feel  such  an  animal ! 
Not  only  his  blossoms  withered,  his  being  seemed  to  draw 
in  its  shoots  and  twigs.  And  when,  coupled  thereunto 
(the  strange  man  having  departed,  his  work  done),  his 
father,  in  his  tenderest  manner,  stated  that  it  would  give 
him  pleasure  to  see  those  same  precocious,  utterly  value- 
less, scribblings  among  the  cinders,  the  last  remaining 
mental  blossom  spontaneously  fell  away.  Richard's  spirit 
stood  bare.  He  protested  not.  Enough  that  it  could  be 
wished !  He  would  not  delay  a  minute  in  doing  it.  Desir- 
ing his  father  to  follow  him,  he  went  to  a  drawer  in  his 
room,  and  from  a  clean-linen  recess,  never  suspected  by 
Sir  Austin,  the  secretive  youth  drew  out  bundle  after 
bundle :  each  neatly  tied,  named,  and  numbered :  and 
pitched  them  into  flames.  And  so  Farewell  my  young 
Ambition !  and  with  it  farewell  all  true  confidence  be- 
tween Father  and  Son. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
THE  MAGNETIC   AGE 

It  was  now,  as  Sir  Austin  had  written  it  down,  The 
Magnetic  Age:  the  Age  of  violent  attractions,  when  to 
hear  mention  of  love  is  dangerous,  and  to  see  it,  a  com- 
munication of  the  disease.  People  at  Raynham  were 
put  on  their  guard  by  the  baronet,  and  his  reputation  for 
wisdom  was  severely  criticized  in  consequence  of  the  in- 
junctions he  thought  fit  to  issue  through  butler  and 
housekeeper  down  to  the  lower  household,  for  the  preser- 
vation of  his  son  from  any  visible  symptom  of  the  passion. 


84       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

A  footman  and  two  housemaids  are  believed  to  have  been 
dismissed  on  the  report  of  heavy  Benson  that  they  were 
in  or  inclining  to  the  state:  upon  which  an  under-cook  and 
a  dairymaid  voluntarily  throw  up  their  places,  averring 
that  "they  did  not  want  no  young  men,  but  to  have  their 
sex  spied  after  by  an  old  wretch  like  that,"  indicating  the 
ponderous  butler,  "was  a  little  too  much  for  a  Christian 
woman,"  and  then  they  were  ungenerous  enough  to  glance 
at  Benson's  well-known  marital  calamity,  hinting  that 
some  men  met  their  deserts.  So  intolerable  did  heavy 
Benson's  espionage  become,  that  Raynham  would  have 
grown  depopulated  of  its  womankind  had  not  Adrian 
interfered,  who  pointed  out  to  the  baronet  what  a  fear- 
ful arm  his  butler  was  wielding.  Sir  Austin  acknowl- 
edged it  despondently.  "It  only  shows,"  said  he,  with  a 
fine  spirit  of  justice,  "how  all  but  impossible  it  is  to  leg- 
islate where  there  are  women!" 

"I  do  not  object,"  he  added;  "I  hope  I  am  too  just  to 
object  to  the  exercise  of  their  natural  inclinations.  All 
I  ask  from  them  is  discreetness." 

"Ay,"   said  Adrian,   whose   discreetness  was  a   marvel. 

"No  gadding  about  in  couples,"  continued  the  baronet, 
"no  kissing  in  public.  Such  occurrences  no  boy  should 
witness.  Whenever  people  of  both  sexes  are  thrown  to- 
gether, they  will  be  silly ;  and  where  they  are  high-fed,  un- 
educated, and  barely  occupied,  it  must  be  looked  for  as 
a  matter  of  course.  Let  it  be  known  that  I  only  require 
discreetness." 

Discreetness,  therefore,  was  instructed  to  reign  at  the 
Abbey.  Under  Adrian's  able  tuition  the  fairest  of  its 
domestics  acquired  that  virtue. 

Discreetness,  too,  was  enjoined  to  the  upper  household. 
Sir  Austin,  who  had  not  previously  appeared  to  notice  the 
case  of  Lobourne's  hopeless  curate,  now  desired  Mrs. 
Doria  to  interdict,  or  at  least  discourage,  his  visits,  for 
the  appearance  of  the  man  was  that  of  an  embodied  sigh 
ami  groan. 

"Really,  A\istin!"  said  Mrs.  Doria,  astonished  to  find 
her  brother  more  awake  than  she  had  supposed,  "I  have 
never  allowed  him  to  hope." 

"Let  him  see  it,  then,"  replied  the  baronet;  "let  him 
see  it." 


THE  MAGNETIC  AGE  85 

"The  man  amuses  me,"  said  Mrs.  Doria.  "You  know, 
we  have  few  amusements  here,  we  inferior  creatures.  I 
confess  I  should  like  a  barrel-organ  better;  that  reminds 
one  of  town  and  the  opera;  and  besides,  it  plays  more 
than  one  tune.  However,  since  you  think  my  society  bad 
for  him,  let  him  stop  away." 

With  the  self-devotion  of  a  woman  she  grew  patient 
and  sweet  the  moment  her  daughter  Clare  was  spoken  of, 
and  the  business  of  her  life  in  view.  Mrs.  Doria's  ma- 
ternal heart  had  betrothed  the  two  cousins,  Richard  and 
Clare;  had  already  beheld  them  espoused  and  fruitful. 
For  this  she  yielded  the  pleasures  of  town ;  for  this  she 
immured  herself  at  Raynham;  for  this  she  bore  with  a 
thousand  follies,  exactions,  inconveniences,  things  abhor- 
rent to  her,  and  heaven  knows  what  forms  of  torture  and 
self-denial,  which  are  smilingly  endured  by  that  greatest 
of  voluntary  martyrs — a  mother  with  a  daughter  to 
marry.  Mrs.  Doria,  an  amiable  widow,  had  surely  married 
but  for  her  daughter  Clare.  The  lady's  hair  no  woman 
could  possess  without  feeling  it  her  pride.  It  was  the  daily 
theme  of  her  lady's-maid, — a  natural  aureole  to  her  head. 
She  was  gay,  witty,  still  physically  youthful  enough  to 
claim  a  destiny;  and  she  sacrificed  it  to  accomplish  her 
daughter's !  sacrificed,  as  with  heroic  scissors,  hair,  wit, 
gaiety — let  us  not  attempt  to  enumerate  how  much !  more 
than  may  be  said.  And  she  was  only  one  of  thousands; 
thousands  who  have  no  portion  of  the  hero's  reward;  for 
he  may  reckon  on  applause,  and  condolence,  and  sym- 
pathy, and  honour ;  they,  poor  slaves !  must  look  for  noth- 
ing but  the  opposition  of  their  own  sex  and  the  sneers 
of  ours.  O,  Sir  Austin!  had  you  not  been  so  blinded, 
what  an  Aphorism  might  have  sprung  from  this  point 
of  observation !  Mrs.  Doria  was  coolly  told,  between  sister 
and  brother,  that  during  the  Magnetic  Age  her  daughter's 
presence  at  Raynham  was  undesirable.  Instead  of  nurs- 
ing offence,  her  sole  thought  was  the  mountain  of  preju- 
dice she  had  to  contend  against.  She  bowed,  and  said, 
Clare  wanted  sea-air — she  had  never  quite  recovered  the 
shock  of  that  dreadful  night.  How  long,  Mrs.  Doria 
wished  to  know,  might  the  Peculiar  Period  be  expected 
to  last?" 

"That,"   said  Sir  Austin,   "depends.     A  year,   perhaps, 


86       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

He  is  entering  on  it.  I  shall  be  most  grieved  to  lose  yotf, 
Helen.     Clare  is  now — how  old  '." 

"Seventeen." 

"She  is  marriageable." 

"Marriageable,  Austin!  at  seventeen!  don't  name  such 
a  thing.     My  child  shall  not  be  robbed  of  her  youth." 

"Our  women  marry  early,  Helen." 

"My  child  shall  not!" 

The  baronet  reflected  a  moment.  He  did  not  wish  to 
lose  his  sister. 

"As  you  are  of  that  opinion,  Helen,"  said  he,  "perhaps 
we  may  still  make  arrangements  to  retain  you  with  us. 
Would  you  think  it  advisable  to  send  Clare — she  should 
know  discipline  —  to  some  establishment  for  a  few 
months?"   .    .    . 

"To  an  asylum,  Austin?"  cried  Mrs.  Doria,  controlling 
her  indignation  as  well  as  she  could. 

"To  some  select  superior  seminary,  Helen.  There  are 
such  to  be  found." 

"Austin!"  Mrs.  Doria  exclaimed,  and  had  to  fight  with 
a  moisture  in  her  eyes.  "Unjust!  absurd!"  she  mur- 
mured. The  baronet  thought  it  a  natural  proposition 
that  Clare  should  be  a  bride  or  a  schoolgirl. 

"I  cannot  leave  my  child."  Mrs.  Doria  trembled. 
"Where  she  goes,  I  go.  I  am  aware  that  she  is  only  one  of 
our  sex,  and  therefore  of  no  value  to  the  world,  but  she 
is  my  child.  I  will  see,  poor  dear,  that  you  have  no  cause 
to  complain  of  her." 

"I  thought,"  Sir  Austin  remarked,  "that  you  acquiesced 
in  my  views  with  regard  to  my  son." 

"Yes — generally,"  said  Mrs.  Doria,  and  felt  culpable 
that  she  had  not  before,  and  could  not  then,  tell  her 
brother  that  he  had  set  up  an  Idol  in  his  house — an  Idol 
of  flesh!  more  retributive  and  abominable  than  wood  or 
brass  or  gold.  But  she  had  bowed  to  the  Idol  too  long — 
she  had  too  entirely  bound  herself  to  gain  her  project  by 
subserviency.  She  had,  and  she  dimly  perceived  it,  com- 
mitted a  greater  fault  in  tactics,  in  teaching  her  daughter 
to  bow  to  the  Idol  also.  Love  of  that  kind  Richard  took 
for  tribute.  He  was  indifferent  to  Clare's  soft  eyes.  The 
parting  kiss  he  gave  her  was  ready  and  cold  as  his  father 
could  desire.     Sir  Austin  now  grew  eloquent  to  him  in 


THE  MAGNETIC  AGE  87 

laudation  of  manly  pursuits:  but  Kichard  thought  his 
eloquence  barren,  his  attempts  at  companionship  awkward, 
and  all  manly  pursuits  and  aims,  life  itself,  vain  and 
worthless.  To  what  end?  sighed  the  blossomless  youth, 
and  cried  aloud,  as  soon  as  he  was  relieved  of  his  father's 
society,  what  was  the  good  of  anything?  Whatever  he 
did — whichever  path  he  selected,  led  back  to  Eaynham. 
And  whatever  he  did,  however  wretched  and  wayward  he 
showed  himself,  only  confirmed  Sir  Austin  more  and  more 
in  the  truth  of  his  previsions.  Tom  Bakewell,  now  the 
youth's  groom,  had  to  give  the  baronet  a  report  of  his 
young  master's  proceedings,  in  common  with  Adrian,  and 
while  there  was  no  harm  to  tell,  Tom  spoke  out.  "He 
do  ride  like  fire  every  day  to  Pig's  Snout,"  naming  the 
highest  hill  in  the  neighbourhood,  "and  stand  there  and 
stare,  never  movin',  like  a  mad  'un.  And  then  hoam  agin 
all  slack  as  if  he'd  been  beaten  in  a  race  by  somebody." 

"There  is  no  woman  in  that!"  mused  the  baronet. 
"He  would  have  ridden  back  as  hard  as  he  went,"  reflected 
this  profound  scientific  humanist,  "had  there  been  a  wom- 
an in  it.  He  would  shun  vast  expanses,  and  seek  shade, 
concealment,  solitude.  The  desire  for  distances  betokens 
emptiness  and  undirected  hunger:  when  the  heart  is  pos- 
sessed by  an  image  we  fly  to  wood  and  forest,  like  the 
guilty." 

Adrian's  report  accused  his  pupil  of  an  extraordinary 
access  of  cynicism. 

"Exactly,"  said  the  baronet.  "As  I  foresaw.  At  this 
period  an  insatiate  appetite  is  accompanied  by  a  fastidious 
palate.  Nothing  but  the  quintessences  of  existence,  and 
those  in  exhaustless  supplies,  will  satisfy  this  craving, 
which  is  not  to  be  satisfied!  Hence  his  bitterness.  Life 
can  furnish  no  food  fitting  for  him.  The  strength^  and 
purity  of  his  energies  have  reached  to  an  almost  divine 
height,  and  roam  through  the  Inane.  Poetry,  love,  and 
such-like,  are  the  drugs  earth  has  to  offer  to  high  natures, 
as  she  offers  to  low  ones  debauchery.  'Tis  a  sign,  this 
sourness,  that  he  is  subject  to  none  of  the  empiricisms 
that  are  afloat.     Now  to  keep  him  clear  of  them!" 

The  Titans  had  an  easier  task  in  storming  Olympus. 
As  yet,  however,  it  could  not  be  said  that  Sir  Austin's 
System  had  failed.     On  the  contrary,   it  had  reared   a 


Ill  l:  OKDKAI.  OK   KK'UAKI)  FEVER  hi. 

youth,  handsome,  Intelligent,  well-bred,  and.  observed  the 

ladies,  with  acute  emphasis,  innocent.     Where,  they  asked, 
was  such  another  ymiiii,'  man  to  he  found? 

"Oh!"  said  Lady  Blandish  to  Sir  Austin,  "if  men  could 
give  their  hands  to  women  unsoiled — how  differenl  would 
many  a  marriage  he!  She  will  be  a  happy  girl  who  calls 
Richard  husband." 

"Happy,  indeed!"  was  the  baronet's  caustic  ejaculation. 
"But  where  shall  I  meet  one  equal  to  him,  and  his  match?" 

"I  was  innocent   when  1  was  a  girl,"  said  the  lady. 

Sir  Austin  bowed  a  reserved  opinion. 

''Do  you  think  no  girls  innocent  \n 

Sir  Austin   gallantly   thougb.1    them   all   so. 

"No,  that  you  know  they  are  not,"  said  the  lady,  stamp- 
ing.    "But  they  are  more  innocent  than  boys,  I  am  sure." 

"Because  of  their  education,  madam.  You  see  now 
what  a  youth  can  be.  Perhaps,  when  my  System  is  pub- 
lished, or  rather — to  speak  more  humbly — when  it  is 
practised,  the  balance  may  be  restored,  and  we  shall  have 
virtuous  young  men." 

"It's  too  late  for  poor  me  to  hope  for  a  husband  from 
one  of  them,"  said  the  lady,  pouting  and  laughing. 

"It  is  never  too  late  for  beauty  to  waken  love,"  returned 
the  baronet,  and  they  trifled  a  little.  They  were  approach- 
ing Daphne's  Bower,  which  they  entered,  and  sat  there  to 
taste  the  coolness  of  a  descending  midsummer  day. 

The  baronet  seemed  in  a  humour  for  dignified  fooling; 
the  lady  for  serious  converse. 

"I  shall  believe  again  in  Arthur's  knights,"  she  said. 
"When  I  was  a  girl  I  dreamed  of  one." 

"And  he  was  in  quest  of  the  San  Greal  ?" 

"If  you  like." 

"And  showed  his  good  taste  by  turning  aside  for  the 
more  tangible  San  Blandish?" 

"Of  course  you  consider  it  would  have  been  so,"  sighed 
the  lady,  ru tiling. 

"I  can  only  judge  by  our  generation,"  said  Sir  Austin, 
with  a  bend  of  homage. 

The  lady  gathered  her  mouth.  "Either  we  are  very 
mighty  or  you  are  very  weak." 

"Both,  madam." 

"But  whatever  we  are.  and  if  we  are  bad,  bad!  we  love 


THE  MAGNETIC  AGE  89 

virtue,  and  truth,  and  lofty  souls,  in  men :  and,  when  we 
meet  those  qualities  in  them,  we  are  constant,  and  would 
die  for  them — die  for  them.  Ah!  you  know  men  but  not 
women." 

"The  knights  possessing  such  distinctions  must  be 
young,  I  presume?"  said  Sir  Austin. 

"Old,  or  young!" 

"But  if  old,  they  are  scarce  capable  of  enterprise?" 

"They  are  loved  for  themselves,  not  for  their  deeds." 

"Ah!" 

"Yes — ah !"  said  the  lady.  "Intellect  may  subdue  wom- 
en— make  slaves  of  them;  and  they  worship  beauty  per- 
haps as  much  as  you  do.  But  they  only  love  for  ever  and 
are  mated  when  they  meet  a  noble  nature." 

Sir  Austin  looked  at  her  wistfully. 

"And  did  you  encounter  the  knight  of  your  dream?" 

"Not  then."  She  lowered  her  eyelids.  It  was  prettily 
done. 

"And  how  did  you  bear  the  disappointment?" 

"My  dream  was  in  the  nursery.  The  day  my  frock  was 
lengthened  to  a  gown  I  stood  at  the  altar.  I  am  not  the 
only  girl  that  has  been  made  a  woman  in  a  day,  and 
given  to  an  ogre  instead  of  a  true  knight." 

"Good  God!"  exclaimed  Sir  Austin,  "women  have  much 
to  bear." 

Here  the  couple  changed  characters.  The  lady  became 
gay  as  the  baronet  grew  earnest. 

"You  know  it  is  our  lot,"  she  said.  "And  we  are  allowed 
many  amusements.  If  we  fulfil  our  duty  in  producing 
children,  that,  like  our  virtue,  is  its  own  reward.  Then, 
as  a  widow,  I  have  wonderful  privileges." 

"To  preserve  which,  you  remain  a  widow?" 

"Certainly,"  she  responded.  "I  have  no  trouble  now  in 
patching  and  piecing  that  rag  the  world  calls — a  char- 
acter. I  can  sit  at  your  feet  every  day  unquestioned. 
To  be  sure,  others  do  the  same,  but  they  are  female 
eccentrics,  and  have  cast  off  the  rag  altogether." 

Sir  Austin  drew  nearer  to  her.  "You  would  have  made 
an  admirable  mother,  madam." 

This  from  Sir  Austin  was  very  like  positive  wooing. 

"It  is,"  he  continued,  "ten  thousand  pities  that  you  are 
not  one." 


90       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"Do  you  think  so?"     She  spoke  with  humility. 
"I  would,"  he  went  on,  "that  heaven  had  given  you  a 
daughter." 

'Would  you  have  thought  her  worthy  of  Richard?" 

"Our  blood,  madam,  should  have  been  one!" 

The  lady  tapped  her  toe  with  her  parasol.  "But  I  am 
a  mother,"  she  said.  "Richard  is  my  son.  Yes!  Richard 
is  my  boy,"  she  reiterated. 

Sir  Austin  most  graciously  appended,  "Call  him  ours, 
madam,"  and  held  his  head  as  if  to  catch  the  word  from 
her  lips,  which,  however,  she  chose  to  refuse,  or  defer. 
They  made  the  coloured  West  a  common  point  for  their 
eyes,  and  then  Sir  Austin  said : 

"As  you  will  not  say  'ours,'  let  me.  And,  as  you  have 
therefore  an  equal  claim  on  the  boy,  I  will  confide  to  you 
a  project  I  have  lately  conceived." 

The  announcement  of  a  project  hardly  savoured  of  a 
coming  proposal,  but  for  Sir  Austin  to  confide  one  to  a 
woman  was  almost  tantamount  to  a  declaration.  So  Lady 
Blandish  thought,  and  so  said  her  soft,  deep-eyed  smile, 
as  she  perused  the  ground  while  listening  to  the  project. 
It  concerned  Richard's  nuptials.  He  was  now  nearly 
eighteen.  He  was  to  marry  when  he  was  five-and-twenty. 
Meantime  a  young  lady,  some  years  his  junior,  was  to  be 
sought  for  in  the  homes  of  England,  who  would  be  every 
way  fitted  by  education,  instincts,  and  blood — on  each  of 
which  qualifications  Sir  Austin  unreservedly  enlarged — 
to  espouse  so  perfect  a  youth  and  accept  the  honourable 
duty  of  assisting  in  the  perpetuation  of  the  Feverels. 
The  baronet  went  on  to  say  that  he  proposed  to  set  forth 
immediately,  and  devote  a  couple  of  months,  to  the  first 
essay  in  his  Coelebite  search. 

"I  fear,"  said  Lady  Blandish,  when  the  project  had 
been  fully  unfolded,  "you  have  laid  down  for  yourself  a 
difficult  task.     You  must  not  be  too  exacting." 

"I  know  it."  The  baronet's  shake  of  the  head  was 
piteous. 

"Even  in  England  she  will  be  rare.  But  I  confine  my- 
self to  no  class.  If  I  ask  for  blood  it  is  for  untainted,  not 
what  you  call  high  blood.  I  believe  many  of  the  middle 
classes  are  frequently  more  careful — more  pure-blooded — 
than  our  aristocracy.     Show  me  among  them  a  God-fear- 


THE  MAGNETIC  AGE  91 

ing  family  who  educate  their  children — I  should  prefer  a 
girl  without  brothers  and  sisters — as  a  Christian  damsel 
should  be  educated — say,  on  the  model  of  my  son,  and  she 
may  be  penniless,  I  will  pledge  her  to  Richard  Feverel." 

Lady  Blandish  bit  her  lip.  "And  what  do  you  do  with 
Eichard  while  you  are  absent  on  this  expedition?" 

"Oh!"  said  the  baronet,  "he  accompanies  his  father." 

"Then  give  it  up.  His  future  bride  is  now  pinafored 
and  bread-and-buttery.  She  romps,  she  cries,  she  dreams 
of  play  and  pudding.  How  can  he  care  for  her?  He 
thinks  more  at  his  age  of  old  women  like  me.  He  will 
be  certain  to  kick  against  her,  and  destroy  your  plan, 
believe  me,  Sir  Austin." 

"Ay?  ay?  do  you  think  that?"  said  the  baronet. 

Lady  Blandish  gave  him  a  multitude  of  reasons. 

"Ay!  true,"  he  muttered.  "Adrian  said  the  same.  He 
must  not  see  her.  How  could  I  think  of  it !  The  child  is 
naked  woman.     He  would  despise  her.     Naturally!" 

"Naturally!"  echoed  the  lady. 

"Then,  madam,"  and  the  baronet  rose,  "there  is  one 
thing  for  me  to  determine  upon.  I  must,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  leave  him." 

"Will  you,  indeed?"  said  the  lady. 

"It  is  my  duty,  having  thus  brought  him  up,  to  see  that 
he  is  properly  mated, — not  wrecked  upon  the  quicksands 
of  marriage,  as  a  youth  so  delicately  trained  might  be; 
more  easily  than  another !  Betrothed,  he  will  be  safe  from 
a  thousand  snares.  I  may,  I  think,  leave  him  for  a  term. 
My  precautions  have  saved  him  from  the  temptations  of 
his  season." 

"And  under  whose  charge  will  you  leave  him?"  Lady 
Blandish  inquired. 

She  had  emerged  from  the  temple,  and  stood  beside 
Sir  Austin  on  the  upper  steps,  under  a  clear  summer 
twilight. 

"Madam!"  he  took  her  hand,  and  his  voice  was  gallant 
and  tender,  "under  whose  but  yours?" 

As  the  baronet  said  this,  he  bent  above  her  hand,  and 
raised  it  to  his  lips. 

Lady  Blandish  felt  that  she  had  been  wooed  and  asked 
in  wedlock.  She  did  not  withdraw  her  hand.  The  bar- 
onet's salute  was  flatteringly   reverent.     He  deliberated 


92        T1IK  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  EEVEREL 

over  it,  as  one  going  through  a  grave  ceremony.  And 
he,  the  scorner  of  women,  had  chosen  her  for  his  homage! 
Lady  Blandish  forgot  that  she  had  taken  some  trouble 
to  arrive  at  it.  She  received  the  exquisite  compliment  in 
all  its  unique  honey-sweet:  for  in  love  we  must  deserve 
nothing  or  the  fine  bloom  of  fruition  is  gone. 

The  lady's  hand  was  still  in  durance,  and  the  baronet 
had  not  recovered  from  his  profound  inclination,  when  a 
noise  from  the  neighbouring  beechwood  startled  the  two 
actors  in  this  courtly  pantomime.  They  turned  their 
heads,  and  beheld  the  hope  of  Raynham  on  horseback 
surveying  the  scene.  The  next  moment  he  had  galloped 
away. 


CHAPTER   XIV 
AN  ATTRACTION 

All  night  Richard  tossed  on  his  bed  with  his  heart  in  a 
rapid  canter,  and  his  brain  bestriding  it,  traversing  the 
rich  untasted  world,  and  the  great  Realm  of  Mystery,  from 
which  he  was  now  restrained  no  longer.  Months  he  had 
wandered  about  the  gates  of  the  Bonnet,  wondering,  sigh- 
ing, knocking  at  them,  and  getting  neither  admittance 
nor  answer.  He  had  the  key  now.  His  own  father  had 
given  it  to  him.  His  heart  was  a  lightning  steed,  and 
bore  him  on  and  on  over  limitless  regions  bathed  in  super- 
human beauty  and  strangeness,  where  cavaliers  and  ladies 
leaned  whispering  upon  close  green  swards,  and  knights 
and  ladies  cast  a  splendour  upon  savage  forests,  and  tilts 
and  tourneys  were  held  in  golden  courts  lit  to  a  glorious 
day  by  ladies'  eyes,  one  pair  of  which,  dimly  visioned, 
constantly  distinguishable,  followed  him  through  the 
boskage  and  dwelt  upon  him  in  the  press,  beaming  while 
he  bent  above  a  hand  glittering  white  and  fragrant  as  the 
frosted  blossom  of  a  May  night. 

Awhile  the  heart  would  pause  and  flutter  to  a  shock:  he 
was  in  the  act  of  consummating  all  earthly  bliss  by  press- 
ing his  lips  to  the  small  white  hand.  Only  to  do  that, 
and  die!  cried  the  Magnetic  Youth:  to  fling  the  Jewel  of 
Life  into  that  one  cup  and  drink  it  oil!    Ho  was  intoxi- 


AN  ATTRACTION  93 

cated  by  anticipation.  For  that  he  was  bom.  There  was, 
then,  some  end  in  existence,  something  to  live  for!  to 
kiss  a  woman's  hand,  and  die!  He  would  leap  from  the 
couch,  and  rush  to  pen  and  paper  to  relieve  his  swarming 
sensations.  Scarce  was  he  seated  when  the  pen  was 
dashed  aside,  the  paper  sent  flying  with  the  exclamation, 
''Have  I  not  sworn  I  would  never  write  again?"  Sir 
Austin  had  shut  that  safety-valve.  The  nonsense  that 
was  in  the  youth  might  have  poured  harmlessly  out,  and 
its  urgency  for  ebullition  was  so  great  that  he  was  re- 
peatedly oblivious  of  his  oath,  and  found  himself  seated 
under  the  lamp  in  the  act  of  composition  before  pride 
could  speak  a  word.  Possibly  the  pride  even  of  Richard 
Feverel  had  been  swamped  if  the  act  of  composition  were 
easy  at  such  a  time,  and  a  single  idea  could  stand  clearly 
foremost;  but  myriads  were  demanding  the  first  place; 
chaotic  hosts,  like  ranks  of  stormy  billows,  pressed  im- 
petuously for  expression,  and  despair  of  reducing  them 
to  form,  quite  as  much  as  pride,  to  which  it  pleased  him 
to  refer  his  incapacity,  threw  down  the  powerless  pen,  and 
sent  him  panting  to  his  outstretched  length  and  another 
headlong  career  through  the  rosy-girdled  land. 

Toward  morning  the  madness  of  the  fever  abated  some- 
what, and  he  went  forth  into  the  air.  A  lamp  was  still 
burning  in  his  father's  room,  and  Eichard  thought,  as  he 
looked  up,  that  he  saw  the  ever-vigilant  head  on  the 
watch.  Instantly  the  lamp  was  extinguished,  the  window 
stood  cold  against  the  hues  of  dawn. 

Strong  pulling  is  an  excellent  medical  remedy  for  cer- 
tain classes  of  fever.  Richard  took  to  it  instinctively. 
The  clear  fresh  water,  burnished  with  sunrise,  sparkled 
against  his  arrowy  prow;  the  soft  deep  shadows  curled 
smiling  away  from  his  gliding  keel.  Overhead  solitary 
morning  unfolded  itself,  from  blossom  to  bud,  from  bud 
to  flower;  still,  delicious  changes  of  light  and  colour,  to 
whose  influences  he  was  heedless  as  he  shot  under  willows 
and  aspens,  and  across  sheets  of  river-reaches,  pure  mir- 
rors to  the  upper  glory,  himself  the  sole  tenant  of  the 
stream.  Somewhere  at  the  founts  of  the  world  lay  the 
land  he  was  rowing  toward;  something  of  its  shadowed 
lights  might  be  discerned  here  and  there.  It  was  not  a 
dream,  now  he  knew.     There  was  a  secret  abroad.     The 


94       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

woods  were  full  of  it ;  the  waters  rolled  with  it,  and  the 
winds.  Oh,  why  could  not  one  in  these  days  do  some 
high  knightly  deed  which  should  draw  down  ladies'  eyes 
from  their  heaven,  as  in  the  days  of  Arthur!  To  such 
a  meaning  breathed  the  unconscious  sighs  of  the  youth, 
when  he  had  pulled  through  his  first  feverish  energy. 

He  was  off  Bursley,  and  had  lapsed  a  little  into  that 
musing  quietude  which  follows  strenuous  exercise,  when 
he  heard  a  hail  and  his  own  name  called.  It  was  no  lady; 
no  fairy,  but  young  Ralph  Morton,  an  irruption  of  miser- 
able masculine  prose.  Heartily  wishing  him  abed  with 
the  rest  of  mankind,  Richard  rowed  in  and  jumped  ashore. 
Ralph  immediately  seized  his  arm,  saying  that  he  desired 
earnestly  to  have  a  talk  with  him,  and  dragged  the  Mag- 
netic Youth  from  his  water-dreams,  up  and  down  the  wet 
mown  grass.  That  he  had  to  say  seemed  to  be  difficult 
of  utterance,  and  Richard,  though  he  barely  listened,  soon 
had  enough  of  his  old  rival's  gladness  at  seeing  him,  and 
exhibited  signs  of  impatience;  whereat  Ralph,  as  one  who 
branches  into  matter  somewhat  foreign  to  his  mind,  but 
of  great  human  interest  and  importance,  put  the  question 
to  him: 

"I  say,  what  woman's  name  do  you  like  best?" 

"I  don't  know  any,"  quoth  Richard,  indifferently. 
''Why  are  you  out  so  early?" 

In  answer  to  this,  Ralph  suggested  that  the  name  of 
Mary  might  be  considered  a  pretty  name. 

Richard  agreed  that  it  might  be;  the  housekeeper  at 
Raynham,  half  the  women  cooks,  and  all  the  housemaids 
enjoyed  that  name;  the  name  of  Mary  was  equivalent  for 
women  at  home. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Ralph.  "We  have  lots  of  Marys. 
It's  so  common.  Oh  I  I  don't  like  Mary  best.  What  do 
you  think  of  Lucy?" 

Richard  thought  it  just  like  another. 

"Do  you  know,"  Ralph  continued,  throwing  off  the  mask 
and  plunging  into  the  subject,  "I'd  do  anything  on  earth 
for  some  names — one  or  two.  It's  not  Mary,  nor  Lucy. 
Clarinda's  pretty,  but  it's  like  a  novel.  Claribel,  I  like. 
Names  beginning  with  'CI'  I  prefer.  The  'CIV  are  al- 
ways gentle  and  lovely  girls  you  would  die  for!  Don't 
you  think  so?" 


AN  ATTRACTION  95 

Richard  had  never  been  acquainted  with  any  of  them  to 
inspire  that  emotion.  Indeed  these  urgent  appeals  to  his 
fancy  in  feminine  names  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning 
slightly  surprised  him,  though  he  was  but  half  awake  to 
the  outer  world.  By  degrees  he  perceived  that  Ralph  was 
changed.  Instead  of  the  lusty  boisterous  boy,  his  rival  in 
manly  sciences,  who  spoke  straightforwardly  and  acted  up 
to  his  speech,  here  was  an  abashed  and  blush-persecuted 
youth,  who  sued  piteously  for  a  friendly  ear  wherein  to 
pour  the  one  idea  possessing  him.  Gradually,  too,  Richard 
apprehended  that  Ralph  likewise  was  on  the  frontiers  of 
the  Realm  of  Mystery,  perhaps  further  toward  it  than  he 
himself  was;  and  then,  as  by  a  sympathetic  stroke,  was 
revealed  to  him  the  wonderful  beauty  and  depth  of  mean- 
ing in  feminine  names.  The  theme  appeared  novel  and 
delicious,  fitted  to  the  season  and  the  hour.  But  the 
hardship  was,  that  Richard  could  choose  none  from 
the  number;  all  were  the  same  to  him;  he  loved  them 
all. 

"Don't  you  really  prefer  the  'Cl's'?"  said  Ralph,  per- 
suasively. 

"Not  better  than  the  names  ending  in  'a'  and  'y,'  "  Rich- 
ard replied,  wishing  he  could,  for  Ralph  was  evidently 
ahead  of  him. 

"Come  under  these  trees,"  said  Ralph.  And  under  the 
trees  Ralph  unbosomed.  His  name  was  down  for  the 
army:  Eton  was  quitted  for  ever.  In  a  few  months  he 
would  have  to  join  his  regiment,  and  before  he  left  he 
.must  say  good-bye  to  his  friends.  .  .  .  Would  Richard 
tell  him  Mrs.  Forey's  address  ?  he  had  heard  she  was  some- 
where by  the  sea.  Richard  did  not  remember  the  ad- 
dress, but  said  he  would  willingly  take  charge  of  any 
letter  and  forward  it. 

Ralph  dived  his  hand  into  his  pocket.  "Here  it  is.  But 
don't  let  anybody  see  it." 

"My  aunt's  name  is  not  Clare,"  said  Richard,  perusing 
what  was  composed  of  the  exterior  formula.  "You've 
addressed  it  to  Clare  herself." 

That  was  plain  to  see. 

"Emmeline  Clementina  Matilda  Laura,  Countess  Bland- 
ish," Richard  continued  in  a  low  tone,  transferring  the 
names,  and  playing  on  the  musical  strings  they  were  to 


96       THE  ORDEAL  OE  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

him.  Then  he  said:  "Names  of  ladies!  How  they 
sweeten  their  names  1" 

He  fixed  his  eyes  on  Ralph.  If  he  discovered  anything 
further  he  said  nothing,  but  bade  the  good  fellow  good- 
bye, jumped  into  his  boat,  and  pulled  down  the  tide.  The 
moment  Ralph  was  hidden  by  an  abutment  of  the  banks, 
Richard  perused  the  address.  For  the  first  time  it  struck 
him  that  his  cousin  Clare  was  a  very  charming  creature: 
he  remembered  the  look  of  her  eyes,  and  especially  the 
last  reproachful  glance  she  gave  him  at  parting.  What 
business  had  Ralph  to  write  to  her?  Did  she  not  belong 
to  Richard  Feverel  ?  He  read  the  words  again  and  again  : 
Clare  Doria  Forey.  Why,  Clare  was  the  name  he  liked 
best — nay,  he  loved  it.  Doria,  too — she  shared  his  own 
name  with  him.  Away  went  his  heart,  not  at  a  canter 
now,  at  a  gallop,  as  one  who  sights  the  quarry.  He  felt 
too  weak  to  pull.  Clare  Doria  Forey — oh,  perfect  melody ! 
Sliding  with  the  tide,  he  heard  it  fluting  in  the  bosom  of 
the  hills. 

When  nature  has  made  us  ripe  for  love,  it  seldom  occurs 
that  the  Fates  are  behindhand  in  furnishing  a  temple  for 
the  flame. 

Above  green-flashing  plunges  of  a  weir,  and  shaken  by 
the  thunder  below,  lilies,  golden  and  white,  were  swaying 
at  anchor  among  the  reeds.  Meadow-sweet  hung  from 
the  banks  thick  with  weed  and  trailing  bramble,  and  there 
also  hung  a  daughter  of  earth.  Her  face  was  shaded  by  a 
broad  straw  hat  with  a  flexible  brim  that  left  her  lips  and 
chin  in  the  sun,  and,  sometimes  nodding,  sent  forth  a 
light  of  promising  eyes.  Across  her  shoulders,  and  behind, 
flowed  large  loose  curls,  brown  in  shadow,  almost  golden 
where  the  ray  touched  them.  She  was  simply  dressed,  be- 
fitting decency  and  the  season.  On  a  closer  inspection 
you  might  see  that  her  lips  were  stained.  This  blooming 
young  person  was  regaling  on  dewberries.  They  grew  be- 
tween the  bank  and  the  water.  Apparently  she  found  the 
fruit  abundant,  fur  her  hand  was  making  pretty  progress 
to  her  mouth.  Fastidious  youth,  which  revolts  at  woman 
plumping  her  exquisite  proportions  on  bread-and-butter, 
and  would  (we  must  suppose)  joyfully  have  her  scraggy 
to  have  her  poetical,  can  hardly  object  to  dewberries.  In- 
deed the  act  of  eating  them  is  dainty  and  induces  musing. 


FERDINAND  AND  MIRANDA  97 

The  dewberry  is  a  sister  to  the  lotus,  and  an  innocent 
sister.  You  eat:  mouth,  eye,  and  hand  are  occupied,  and 
the  undrugged  mind  free  to  roam.  And  so  it  was  with  the 
damsel  who  knelt  there.  The  little  skylark  went  up  above 
her,  all  song,  to  the  smooth  southern  cloud  lying  along 
the  blue:  from  a  dewy  copse  dark  over  her  nodding  hat 
the  blackbird  fluted,  calling  to  her  with  thrice  mellow 
note:  the  kingfisher  flashed  emerald  out  of  green  osiers: 
a  bow-winged  heron  travelled  aloft,  seeking  solitude:  a 
boat  slipped  toward  her,  containing  a  dreamy  youth;  and 
still  she  plucked  the  fruit,  and  ate,  and  mused,  as  if  no 
fairy  prince  were  invading  her  territories,  and  as  if  she 
wished  not  for  one,  or  knew  not  her  wishes.  Surrounded 
by  the  green  shaven  meadows,  the  pastoral  summer  buzz, 
the  weir-fall's  thundering  white,  amid  the  breath  and 
beauty  of  wild  flowers,  she  was  a  bit  of  lovely  human  life 
in  a  fair  setting;  a  terrible  attraction.  The  Magnetic 
Youth  leaned  round  to  note  his  proximity  to  the  weir- 
piles,  and  beheld  the  sweet  vision.  Stiller  and  stiller  grew 
nature,  as  at  the  meeting  of  two  electric  clouds.  Her 
posture  was  so  graceful,  that  though  he  was  making 
straight  for  the  weir,  he  dared  not  dip  a  scull.  Just  then 
one  enticing  dewberry  caught  her  eyes.  He  was  floating 
by  unheeded,  and  saw  that  her  hand  stretched  low,  and 
could  not  gather  what  it  sought.  A  stroke  from  his 
right  brought  him  beside  her.  The  damsel  glanced  up 
dismayed,  and  her  whole  shape  trembled  over  the  brink. 
Kichard  sprang  from  his  boat  into  the  water.  Pressing 
a  hand  beneath  her  foot,  which  she  had  thrust  against 
the  crumbling  wet  sides  of  the  bank  to  save  herself,  he 
enabled  her  to  recover  her  balance,  and  gain  safe  earth, 
whither  he  followed  her. 


CHAPTER   XV 
FERDINAND   AND   MIRANDA 

He  had  landed  on  an  island  of  the  still-vexed  Ber- 
moothes.  The  world  lay  wrecked  behind  him:  Raynham 
hung  in  mists,  remote,  a  phantom  to  the  vivid  reality  of 
this  white  hand  which  had  drawn  him  thither  away  thou- 


98       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

sands  of  leagues  in  an  eye-twinkle.  ITark,  how  Ariel 
sang  overhead!  What  splendour  in  the  heavens!  What 
marvels  of  beauty  aboul  his  enchanted  brows!  And,  0 
you  wonder!  Fair  Flame!  by  whose  light  the  glories  of 
being  are  HOW  first  seen.  .  .  .  Radiant  Miranda!  Frince 
Ferdinand  is  at  your  feet. 

Or  is   it  Adam,  his  rib  taken  from  his  side  in  sleep, 
and  thus  transformed,  to  make  him  behold  his  Paradi 
and  lose  it?  .    .    . 

The  youth  looked  on  her  with  as  glowing  an  eye.  It 
was  the  First  Woman  to  him. 

And  she — mankind  was  all  Caliban  to  her,  saving  this 
one  princely  youth. 

So  to  each  other  said  their  changing  eyes  in  the  moment 
they  stood  together;  he  pale,  and  she  blushing. 

She  was  indeed  sweetly  fair,  and  would  have  been  held 
fair  among  rival  damsels.  On  a  magic  shore,  and  to  a 
youth  educated  by  a  System,  strung  like  an  arrow  drawn 
to  the  head,  he,  it  might  be  guessed,  could  fly  fast  and  far 
with  her.  The  soft  rose  in  her  cheeks,  the  clearness  of 
her  eyes,  bore  witness  to  the  body's  virtue;  and  health 
and  happy  blood  were  in  her  bearing.  Had  she  stood 
before  Sir  Austin  among  rival  damsels,  that  Scientific 
Humanist,  for  the  consummation  of  his  System,  would 
have  thrown  her  the  handkerchief  for  his  son.  The  wide 
summer-hat,  nodding  over  her  forehead  to  her  brows, 
seemed  to  flow  with  the  flowing  heavy  curls,  and  those 
fire-threaded  mellow  curls,  only  half-curls,  waves  of  hair 
call  them,  rippling  at  the  ends,  went  like  a  sunny  red- 
veined  torrent  down  her  back  almost  to  her  waist :  a 
glorious  vision  to  the  youth,  who  embraced  it  as  a  flower 
of  beauty,  and  read  not  a  feature.  There  were  curious 
features  of  colour  in  her  face  for  him  to  have  read.  Her 
brows,  thick  and  brownish  against  a  soft  skin  showing  the 
action  of  the  blood,  met  in  the  bend  of  a  bow,  extending 
to  the  temples  long  and  level :  you  saw  that  she  was  fash- 
ioned to  peruse  the  sights  of  earth,  and  by  the  pliability 
of  her  brows  that  the  wonderful  creature  used  her  faculty, 
and  was  not  going  to  be  a  statue  to  the  gazer.  Under  the 
dark  thick  brows  an  arch  of  lashes  shot  out,  giving  a 
wealth  of  darkness  to  the  full  frank  blue  eyes,  a  mystery 
of  meaning — more  than  brain  was  ever  meant  to  fathom: 


FERDINAND    AND    MIRANDA  99 

richer,  henceforth,  than  all  mortal  wisdom  to  Prince  Fer- 
dinand. For  when  nature  turns  artist,  and  produces  con- 
trasts of  colour  on  a  fair  face,  where  is  the  Sage,  or  what 
the  Oracle,  shall  match  the  depth  of  its  lightest  look? 

Prince  Ferdinand  was  also  fair.  In  his  slim  boating- 
attire  his  figure  looked  heroic.  His  hair,  rising  from  the 
parting  to  the  right  of  his  forehead,  in  what  his  admiring 
Lady  Blandish  called  his  plume,  fell  away  slanting  silkily 
to  the  temples  across  the  nearly  imperceptible  upward 
curve  of  his  brows  there — felt  more  than  seen,  so  slight 
it  was — and  gave  to  his  profile  a  bold  beauty,  to  which 
his  bashful,  breathless  air  was  a  flattering  charm.  An 
arrow  drawn  to  the  head,  capable  of  flying  fast  and  far 
with  her!  He  leaned  a  little  forward,  drinking  her  in 
with  all  his  eyes,  and  young  Love  has  a  thousand.  Then 
truly  the  System  triumphed,  just  ere  it  was  to  fall ;  and 
could  Sir  Austin  have  been  content  to  draw  the  arrow 
to  the  head,  and  let  it  fly,  when  it  would  fly,  he  might 
have  pointed  to  his  son  again,  and  said  to  the  world, 
"Match  him!"  Such  keen  bliss  as  the  youth  had  in  the 
sight  of  her,  an  innocent  youth  alone  has  powers  of  soul 
in  him  to  experience. 

"O  Women!"  says  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip,  in  one  of  its 
solitary  outbursts,  "Women,  who  like,  and  will  have  for 
hero,  a  rake !  how  soon  are  you  not  to  learn  that  you  have 
taken  bankrupts  to  your  bosoms,  and  that  the  putrescent 
gold  that  attracted  you  is  the  slime  of  the  Lake  of  Sin!" 

If  these  two  were  Ferdinand  and  Miranda,  Sir  Austin 
was  not  Prospero,  and  was  not  present,  or  their  fates 
might  have  been  different. 

So  they  stood  a  moment,  changing  eyes,  and  then 
Miranda  spoke,  and  they  came  down  to  earth,  feeling 
no  less  in  heaven. 

She  spoke  to  thank  him  for  his  aid.  She  used  quite 
common  simple  words ;  and  used  them,  no  doubt,  to  express 
a  common  simple  meaning:  but  to  him  she  was  uttering 
magic,  casting  spells,  and  the  effect  they  had  on  him  was 
manifested  in  the  incoherence  of  his  replies,  which  were 
too  foolish  to  be  chronicled. 

The  couple  were  again  mute.     Suddenly  Miranda,  with 


100      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

an  exclamation  of  anguish,  and   innumerable  lights  and 

shadows  playing  over  her  lovely  face,  clapped  her  hands, 
crying  aloud,  "My  book!  my  book!"  and  ran  to  the  bank. 

Prince  Ferdinand  was  at  her  side.  "What  have  you 
lost?"  he  said. 

"My  book!"  she  answered,  her  delicious  curls  swinging 
across  her  shoulders  to  the  stream.  Then  turning  to  him, 
"Oh,  no,  no !  let  me  entreat  you  not  to,"  she  said ;  "I  do 
not  so  very  much  mind  losing  it."  And  in  her  eagerness 
to  restrain  him  she  unconsciously  laid  her  gentle  hand 
upon  his  arm,  and  took  the  force  of  motion  out  of  him. 

"Indeed,  I  do  not  really  care  for  the  silly  book,"  she 
continued,  withdrawing  her  hand  quickly,  and  reddening. 
"Pray,  do  not!" 

The  young  gentleman  had  kicked  off  his  shoes.  No 
sooner  was  the  spell  of  contact  broken  than  he  jumped 
in.  The  water  was  still  troubled  and  discoloured  by  his 
introductory  adventure,  and,  though  he  ducked  his  head 
with  the  spirit  of  a  dabchick,  the  book  was  missing.  A 
scrap  of  paper  floating  from  the  bramble  just  above  the 
water,  and  looking  as  if  fire  had  caught  its  edges  and 
it  had  flown  from  one  adverse  element  to  the  other,  was 
all  he  could  lay  hold  of;  and  he  returned  to  land  dis- 
consolately, to  hear  Miranda's  murmured  mixing  of  thanks 
and  pretty  expostulations. 

"Let  me  try  again,"  he  said. 

"No,  indeed!"  she  replied,  and  used  the  awful  threat: 
"I  will  run  away  if  you  do,"  which  effectually  restrained 
him. 

Her  eye  fell  on  the  fire-stained  scrap  of  paper,  and 
brightened,  as  she  cried,  "There,  there!  you  have  what  I 
want.  It  is  that.  I  do  not  care  for  the  book.  No,  please! 
You  are  not  to  look  at  it.     Give  it  me." 

Before  her  playfully  imperative  injunction  was  fairly 
spoken,  Richard  had  glanced  at  the  document  and  dis- 
covered a  Griffin  oetween  two  Wheatsheaves :  his  crest  in 
silver:  and  below — O  wonderment  immense!  his  own  hand- 
writing ! 

He  handed  it  to  her.  She  took  it,  and  put  it  in  her 
bosom. 

Who  would  have  thought,  that,  where  all  else  perished, 
Odes,  Idyls,  Lines,  Stanzas,  this  one  Sonnet  to  the  stars 


FERDINAND    AND    MIRANDA  101 

should  be  miraculously  reserved  for  such  a  starry  fate — 
passing  beatitude! 

As  they  walked  silently  across  the  meadow,  Richard 
strove  to  remember  the  hour  and  the  mood  of  mind  in 
which  he  had  composed  the  notable  production.  The 
stars  were  invoked,  as  seeing  and  foreseeing  all,  to  tell 
him  where  then  his  love  reclined,  and  so  forth;  Hesper 
was  complacent  enough  to  do  so,  and  described  her  in 
a  couplet — 

"Through  sunset's  amber  see  me  shining  fair, 
As.  her  blue  eyes  shine  through  her  golden  hair." 

And  surely  no  words  could  be  more  prophetic.  Here 
were  two  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair;  and  by  some  strange 
chance,  that  appeared  like  the  working  of  a  divine  finger, 
she  had  become  the  possessor  of  the  prophecy,  she  that 
was  to  fulfil  it!  The  youth  was  too  charged  with  emo- 
tion to  speak.  Doubtless  the  damsel  had  less  to  think  of, 
or  had  some  trifling  burden  on  her  conscience,  for  she 
seemed  to  grow  embarrassed.  At  last  she  drew  up  her 
chin  to  look  at  her  companion  under  the  nodding  brim 
of  her  hat  (and  the  action  gave  her  a  charmingly  freakish 
air),  crying,  "But  where  are  you  going  to?  You  are  wet 
through.  Let  me  thank  you  again;  and,  pray,  leave  me, 
and  go  home  and  change  instantly." 

"Wet?"  replied  the  magnetic  muser,  with  a  voice  of 
tender  interest;  "not  more  than  one  foot,  I  hope.  I  will 
leave  you  while  you  dry  your  stockings  in  the  sun." 

At  this  she  could  not  withhold  a  shy  laugh. 

"Not  I,  but  you.  You  would  try  to  get  that  silly  book 
for  me,  and  you  are  dripping  wet.  Are  you  not  very 
uncomfortable  ?" 

In  all  sincerity  he  assured  her  that  he  was  not. 

"And  you  really  do  not  feel  that  you  are  wet?" 

He  really  did  not :  and  it  was  a  fact  that  he  spoke  truth. 

She  pursed  her  dewberry  mouth  in  the  most  comical 
way,  and  her  blue  eyes  lightened  laughter  out  of  the  half- 
closed  lids. 

"I  cannot  help  it,"  she  said,  her  mouth  opening^  and 
sounding  harmonious  bells  of  laughter  in  his  ears.  "Par- 
don me,  won't  you?" 


102      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

His  face  took  the  same  soft  smiling  curves  in  admira- 
tion of  her. 

"Not  to  feel  that  you  have  been  in  the  water,  the  very 
moment  after!"  she  musically  interjected,  seeing  she  was 
excused. 

"It's  true,"  he  said;  and  his  own  gravity  then  touched 
him  to  join  a  duet  with  her,  which  made  them  no  longer 
feel  strangers,  and  did  the  work  of  a  month  of  intimacy. 
Better  than  sentiment,  laughter  opens  the  breast  to  love; 
opens  the  whole  breast  to  his  full  quiver,  instead  of  a 
corner  here  and  there  for  a  solitary  arrow.  Hail  the 
occasion  propitious,  O  British  young!  and  laugh  and 
treat  love  as  an  honest  God,  and  dabble  not  with  the 
sentimental  rouge.  These  two  laughed,  and  the  souls  of 
each  cried  out  to  the  other,  "It  is  I,  it  is  I." 

They  laughed  and  forgot  the  cause  of  their  laughter, 
and  the  sun  dried  his  light  river  clothing,  and  they  strolled 
toward  the  blackbird's  copse,  and  stood  near  a  stile  in 
sight  of  the  foam  of  the  weir  and  the  many-coloured  rings 
of  eddies  streaming  forth  from  it. 

Richard's  boat,  meanwhile,  had  contrived  to  shoot  the 
weir,  and  was  swinging,  bottom  upward,  broadside  with 
the  current  down  the  rapid  backwater. 

"Will  you  let  it  go?"  said  the  damsel,  eyeing  it  curi- 
ously. 

"It  can't  be  stopped,"  he  replied,  and  could  have  added: 
"What  do  I  care  for  it  now!" 

His  old  life  was  whirled  away  with  it,  dead,  drowned. 
His  new  life  was  with  her,  alive,  divine. 

She  flapped  low  the  brim  of  her  hat.  "You  must  really 
not  come  any  farther,"  she  softly  said. 

"And  will  you  go,  and  not  tell  me  who  you  are?"  he 
asked,  growing  bold  as  the  fears  of  losing  her  came  across 
him.  "And  will  you  not  tell  me  before  you  go"— his  face 
burned — "how  you  came  by  that — that  paper?" 

She  chose  to  select  the  easier  question  for  answer: 
"You  ought  to  know  me;  we  have  been  introduced."  Sweet 
was  her  winning  oil-hand  affability. 

"Then  who,  in  heaven's  name,  are  you?     Tell   mel     I 
never  could  have  forgotten  you." 
"You  have,  I  think,"  she  said. 

"Impossible  that  we  could  ever  have  met,  and  I  forget 
you!" 


FERDINAND   AND   MIRANDA  103 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"Do  you  remember  Belthorpe?" 

"Belthorpe!  Belthorpe!"  quoth  Richard,  as  if  he  had 
to  touch  his  brain  to  recollect  there  was  such  a  place. 
"Do  you  mean  old  Blaize's  farm?" 

"Then  I  am  old  Blaize's  niece."  She  tripped  him  a 
soft  curtsey. 

The  magnetized  youth  gazed  at  her.  By  what  magic 
was  it  that  this  divine  sweet  creature  could  be  allied  with 
that  old  churl! 

"Then  what — what  is  your  name?"  said  his  mouth, 
while  his  eyes  added,  "O  wonderful  creature!  How  came 
you  to  enrich  the  earth?" 

"Have  you  forgot  the  Desboroughs  of  Dorset,  too?"  she 
peered  at  him  from  a  side-bend  of  the  napping  brim. 

"The  Desboroughs  of  Dorset?"  A  light  broke  in  on 
him.  "And  have  you  grown  to  this?  That  little  girl  I 
saw  there!" 

He  drew  close  to  her  to  read  the  nearest  features  of 
the  vision.  She  could  no  more  laugh  off  the  piercing 
fervour  of  his  eyes.  Her  volubility  fluttered  under  his 
deeply  wistful  look,  and  now  neither  voice  was  high,  and 
they  were  mutually  constrained. 

"You  see,"  she  murmured,  "we  are  old  acquaintances." 

Richard,  with  his  eyes  still  intently  fixed  on  her,  re- 
turned, "You  are  very  beautiful!" 

The  words  slipped  out.  Perfect  simplicity  is  uncon- 
sciously audacious.  Her  overpowering  beauty  struck  his 
heart,  and,  like  an  instrument  that  is  touched  and  answers 
to  the  touch,  he  spoke. 

Miss  Desborough  made  an  effort  to  trifle  with  this  ter- 
rible directness;  but  his  eyes  would  not  be  gainsaid,  and 
checked  her  lips.  She  turned  away  from  them,  her  bosom 
a  little  rebellious.  Praise  so  passionately  spoken,  and  by 
one  who  has  been  a  damsel's  first  dream,  dreamed  of 
nightly  many  long  nights,  and  clothed  in  the  virgin  silver 
of  her  thoughts  in  bud,  praise  from  him  is  coin  the  heart 
cannot  reject,  if  it  would.     She  quickened  her  steps. 

"I  have  offended  you!"  said  a  mortally  wounded  voice 
across  her  shoulder. 

That  he  should  think  so  were  too  dreadful. 

"Oh  no,  no!  you  would  never  offend  me."  She  gave 
him  her  whole  sweet  face. 


104      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"Then  why — why  do  you  leave  me?" 

"Because,"  she  hesitated,  "I  must  go." 

"No.     You  must  not  go.     Why  must  you  go?     Do  not 

"Indeed  1  must/'  she  said,  pulling  at  the  obnoxious 
broad  brim  of  her  hat;  and,  interpreting  a  pause  he  made 
for  his  assent  to  her  rational  resolve,  shyly  looking  at  him, 
she  held  her  hand  out,  and  said,  "Good-bye,"  as  if  it  were 
a  natural  thing  to  say. 

The  hand  was  pure  white — white  and  fragrant  as  the 
frosted  blossom  of  a  Maynight.  It  was  the  hand  whose 
shadow,  cast  before,  he  had  last  night  bent  his  head  rever- 
entially above,  and  kissed — resigning  himself  thereupon 
over  to  execution  for  payment  of  the  penalty  of  such  dar- 
ing— by  such  bliss  well  rewarded. 

He  took  the  hand,  and  held  it,  gazing  between  her  eyes. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said  again,  as  frankly  as  she  could, 
and  at  the  same  time  slightly  compressing  her  fingers  on 
his  in  token  of  adieu.  It  was  a  signal  for  his  to  close 
firmly  upon  hers. 

"You  will  not  go?" 

"Pray,  let  me,"  she  pleaded,  her  sweet  brows  suing  in 
wrinkles. 

"You  will  not  go?"  Mechanically  he  drew  the  white 
hand  nearer  his  thumping  heart. 

"I  must,"  she  faltered  piteously. 

"You  will  not  go?" 

"Oh  yes!  yes!" 

"Tell  me.    Do  you  wish  to  go?" 

The  question  was  a  subtle  one.  A  moment  or  two  she 
did  not  answer,  and  then  forswore  herself,  and  said,  Yes. 

"Do  you — you  wish  to  go?"  He  looked  with  quivering 
eyelids  under  hers. 

A  fainter  Yes  responded. 

"You  wish — wish  to  leave  me?"  His  breath  went  with 
the  words. 

"Indeed  I  must." 

Her  hand  became  a  closer  prisoner. 

All  at  once  an  alarming  delicious  shudder  went  through 
her  frame.  From  him  to  her  it  coursed,  and  back  from 
her  to  him.  Forward  and  back  love's  electric  messenger 
rushed    from    heart    to    heart,    knocking    at    each,    till    it 


FERDINAND   AND   MIRANDA  105 

surged  tumultuously  against  the  bars  of  its  prison,  cry- 
ing out  for  its  mate.  They  stood  trembling  in  unison, 
a  lovely  couple  under  these  fair  heavens  of  the  morning. 

When  he  could  get  his  voice  it  said,  "Will  you  go?" 

But  she  had  none  to  reply  with,  and  could  only  mutely 
bend  upward  her  gentle  wrist. 

"Then,  farewell !"  he  said,  and,  dropping  his  lips  to  the 
soft  fair  hand,  kissed  it,  and  hung  his  head,  swinging 
away  from  her,  ready  for  death. 

Strange,  that  now  she  was  released  she  should  linger 
by  him.  Strange,  that  his  audacity,  instead  of  the  ex- 
ecutioner, brought  blushes  and  timid  tenderness  to  his 
side,  and  the  sweet  words,  "You  are  not  angry  with  me?" 

"With  you,  O  Beloved!"  cried  his  soul.  "And  you  for- 
give me,  fair  charity!" 

"I  tbink  it  was  rude  of  me  to  go  without  thanking  you 
again,"  she  said,  and  again  proffered  her  hand. 

The  sweet  heaven-bird  shivered  out  his  song  above  him. 
The  gracious  glory  of  heaven  fell  upon  his  soul.  He 
touched  her  hand,  not  moving  his  eyes  from  her,  nor 
speaking,  and  she,  with  a  soft  word  of  farewell,  passed 
across  the  stile,  and  up  the  pathway  through  the  dewy 
shades  of  the  copse,  and  out  of  the  arch  of  the  light, 
away  from  his  eyes. 

And  away  with  her  went  the  wild  enchantment.  He 
looked  on  barren  air.  But  it  was  no  more  the  world  of 
yesterday.  The  marvellous  splendours  had  sown  seeds  in 
him,  ready  to  spring  up  and  bloom  at  her  gaze;  and  in  his 
bosom  now  the  vivid  conjuration  of  her  tones,  her  face, 
her  shape,  makes  them  leap  and  illumine  him  like  fitful 
summer  lightnings — ghosts  of  the  vanished  sun. 

There  was  nothing  to  tell  him  that  he  had  been  making 
love  and  declaring  it  with  extraordinary  rapidity;  nor  did 
he  know  it.  Soft  flushed  cheeks!  sweet  mouth!  strange 
sweet  brows!  eyes  of  softest  fire!  how  could  his  ripe  eyes 
behold  you,  and  not  plead  to  keep  you?  Nay,  how  could 
he  let  you  go?  And  he  seriously  asked  himself  that 
question. 

To-morrow  this  place  will  have  a  memory — the  river 
and  the  meadow,  and  the  white  falling  weir:  his  heart  will 
build  a  temple  here;  and  the  skylark  will  be  its  high- 


10G       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

priest,  and  the  old  blackbird  its  glossy-gowned  chorister, 
and  there  will  be  a  sacred  repast  of  dewberries.  To-day 
the  grass  is  grass:  his  heart  is  chased  by  phantoms  and 
finds  rest  nowhere.  Only  when  the  most  tender  freshness 
of  his  flower  comes  across  him  does  he  taste  a  moment's 
calm;  and  no  sooner  does  it  come  than  it  gives  place  to 
keen  pangs  for  fear  that  she  may  not  be  his  for  ever. 

Erelong  be  learns  that  her  name  is  Lucy.  Erelong  he 
meets  Ralph,  and  discovers  that  in  a  day  he  has  distanced 
him  by  a  sphere.  He  and  Ralph  and  the  curate  of  Lo- 
bourne  join  in  their  walks,  and  raise  classical  discussions 
on  ladies'  hair,  fingering  a  thousand  delicious  locks,  from 
those  of  Cleopatra  to  the  Borgia's.  "Fair!  fair!  all  of 
them  fair!"  sighs  the  melancholy  curate,  "as  are  those 
women  formed  for  our  perdition !  I  think  we  have  in 
this  country  what  will  match  the  Italian  or  the  Greek." 
His  mind  flutters  to  Mrs.  Doria,  Richard  blushes  before 
the  vision  of  Lucy,  and  Ralph,  whose  heroine's  hair  is  a 
dark  luxuriance,  dissents,  and  claims  a  noble  share  in 
the  slaughter  of  men  for  dark-haired  Wonders.  They 
have  no  mutual  confidences,  but  they  are  singularly  kind 
to  each  other,  these  three  children  of  instinct. 


CHAPTER   XVI 
UNMASKING    OF'  MASTER    RIPTON   TTTOMRSON 

Lady  Blandish,  and  others  who  professed  an  interest  in 
the  fortunes  and  future  of  the  systematized  youth,  had  oc- 
casionally mentioned  names  of  families  whose  alliance 
according  to  apparent  calculations,  would  not  degrade  his 
blood :  and  over  these  names,  secretly  preserved  on  an  open 
leaf  of  the  note-book,  Sir  Austin,  as  he  neared  the  me- 
tropolis, distantly  dropped  his  eye.  There  were  names 
historic  and  names  mushroomic;  names  that  the  Con- 
queror might  have  called  in  his  muster-roll ;  names  that 
had  been,  clearly,  tossed  into  the  upper  stratum  of  civilized 
life  by  a  mill-wheel  or  a  merchant-stool.  Against  them 
the  baronet  had  written  M.,  or  Po.  or  Pr. — signifying, 
Money,  Position,  Principles,  favouring  the  latter  with 
special  brackets.     The  wisdom  of  a  worldly  man,  which 


UNMASKING  OF  KIPTON  THOMPSON      107 

he  could  now  and  then  adopt,  determined  him,  before  he 
commenced  his  round  of  visits,  to  consult  and  sound  his 
solicitor  and  his  physician  thereanent;  lawyers  and  doc- 
tors being  the  rats  who  know  best  the  merits  of  a  house, 
and  on  what  sort  of  foundation  it  may  be  standing. 

Sir  Austin  entered  the  great  city  with  a  sad  mind. 
The  memory  of  his  misfortune  came  upon  him  vividly, 
as  if  no  years  had  intervened,  and  it  were  but  yesterday 
that  he  found  the  letter  telling  him  that  he  had  no  wife 
and  his  son  no  mother.  He  wandered  on  foot  through  the 
streets  the  first  night  of  his  arrival,  looking  strangely  at 
the  shops  and  shows  and  bustle  of  the  world  from  which 
he  had  divorced  himself;  feeling  as  destitute  as  the  poor- 
est vagrant.  He  had  almost  forgotten  how  to  find  his 
way  about,  and  came  across  his  old  mansion  in  his  efforts 
to  regain  his  hotel.  The  windows  were  alight — signs  of 
merry  life  within.  He  stared  at  it  from  the  shadow  of 
the  opposite  side.  It  seemed  to  him  he  was  a  ghost  gazing 
upon  his  living  past.  And  then  the  phantom  which  had 
stood  there  mocking  while  he  felt  as  other  men — the 
phantom,  now  flesh  and  blood  reality,  seized  and  convulsed 
his  heart,  and  filled  its  unforgiving  crevices  with  bitter 
ironic  venom.  He  remembered  by  the  time  reflection  re- 
turned to  him  that  it  was  Algernon,  who  had  the  house 
at  his  disposal,  probably  giving  a  card-party,  or  something 
of  the  sort.  In  the  morning,  too,  he  remembered  that  he 
had  divorced  the  world  to  wed  a  System,  and  must  be 
faithful  to  that  exacting  Spouse,  who,  now  alone  of  things 
on  earth,  could  fortify  and  recompense  him. 

Mr.  Thompson  received  his  client  with  the  dignity  and 
emotion  due  to  such  a  rent-roll  and  the  unexpectedness 
of  the  honour.  He  was  a  thin  stately  man  of  law,  garbed 
as  one  who  gave  audience  to  sacred  bishops,  and  carrying 
on  his  countenance  the  stamp  of  paternity  to  the  parch- 
ment-skins, and  of  a  virtuous  attachment  to  Port  wine 
sufficient  to  increase  his  respectability  in  the  eyes  of  moral 
Britain.  After  congratulating  Sir  Austin  on  the  fortunate 
issue  of  two  or  three  suits,  and  being  assured  that  the 
baronet's  business  in  town  had  no  concern  therewith,  Mr. 
Thompson  ventured  to  hope  that  the  young  heir  was  all 
his  father  could  desire  him  to  be,  and  heard  with  sat- 
isfaction that  he  was  a  pattern  to  the  youth  of  the  Age. 


Hi*      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"A  difficult  time  of  life,  Sir  Austin!"  said  the  old  law- 
yer, shaking  his  head.  "We  must  keep  our  eyes  on  them 
— keep  awake!    The  mischief  is  done  in  a  minute." 

"We  must,  take  ''arc  to  have  seen  where  we  planted,  and 
that  the  root  was  sound,  or  the  mischief  will  do  itself  in 
Bpite  of,  or  under  the  very  spectacles  of,  supervision," 
said  the  baronet. 

His  legal  adviser  murmured  "Exactly,"  as  if  that  w<  re 
his  own  idea,  adding,  "It  is  my  plan  with  Ripton,  who  has 
had  the  honour  of  an  introduction  to  you,  and  a  very 
pleasant  time  he  spent  with  my  young  friend,  whom  he 
does  not  forget.  Ripton  follows  the  Law.  He  is  articled 
to  me,  and  will,  I  trust,  succeed  me  worthily  in  your 
confidence.  I  bring  him  into  town  in  the  morning;  I  take 
him  back  at  night.  I  think  I  may  say  that  I  am  quite 
content  with  him." 

"Do  you  think,"  said  Sir  Austin,  fixing  his  brows,  "that 
you  can  trace  every  act  of  his  to  its  motive?" 

The  old  lawyer  bent  forward  and  humbly  requested  that 
this  might  be  repeated. 

"Do  you" — Sir  Austin  held  the  same  searching  expres- 
sion— "do  you  establish  yourself  in  a  radiating  centre  of 
intuition:  do  you  base  your  watchfulness  on  so  thorough 
an  acquaintance  with  his  character,  so  perfect  a  knowledge 
of  the  instrument,  that  all  its  movements — even  the  ec- 
centric ones — are  anticipated  by  you,  and  provided  for?" 

The  explanation  was  a  little  too  long  for  the  old  lawyer 
to  entreat  another  repetition.  Winking  with  the  painful 
deprecation  of  a  deaf  man,  Mr.  Thompson  smiled  urbanely, 
coughed  conciliatingly,  and  said  he  was  afraid  he  could 
not  affirm  that  much,  though  he  was  happily  enabled  to 
say  that  Ripton  had  borne  an  extremely  good  character 
at  school. 

"I  find,"  Sir  Austin  remarked,  as  sardonically  he  re- 
laxed his  inspecting  pose  and  mien,  "there  are  fathers 
who  are  content  to  be  simply  obeyed.  Now  I  require  not 
only  that  my  son  should  obey;  I  would  have  him  guiltless 
of  the  impulse  to  gainsay  my  wishes — feeling  me  in  him 
stronger  than  his  undeveloped  nature,  up  to  a  certain 
period,  where  my  responsibility  ends  and  his  commences. 
Man  is  a  self-acting  machine.  He  cannot  cease  to  be  a 
machine;  but,  though  self-acting,  he  may  lose  the  powers 


UNMASKING  OF  RIPTON  THOMPSON      109 

of  self-guidance,  and  in  a  wrong  course  his  very  vitalities 
hurry  him  to  perdition.  Young,  he  is  an  organism  ripen- 
ing to  the  set  mechanic  diurnal  round,  and  while  so  he 
needs  all  the  angels  to  hold  watch  over  him  that  he  grow 
straight  and  healthy,  and  fit  for  what  machinal  duties  he 
may  have  to  perform."    .    .    . 

Mr.  Thompson  agitated  his  eyebrows  dreadfully.  He  was 
utterly  lost.  He  respected  Sir  Austin's  estates  too  much 
to  believe  for  a  moment  he  was  listening  to  downright 
folly.  Yet  how  otherwise  explain  the  fact  of  his  excellent 
client  being  incomprehensible  to  him?  For  a  middle- 
aged  gentleman,  and  one  who  has  been  in  the  habit  of 
advising  and  managing,  will  rarely  have  a  notion  of  ac- 
cusing his  understanding;  and  Mr.  Thompson  had  not  the 
slightest  notion  of  accusing  his.  But  the  baronet's  con- 
descension in  coming  thus  to  him,  and  speaking  on  the 
subject  nearest  his  heart,  might  well  affect  him,  and  he 
quickly  settled  the  case  in  favour  of  both  parties,  pro- 
nouncing mentally  that  his  honoured  client  had  a  mean- 
ing, and  so  deep  it  was,  so  subtle,  that  no  wonder  he  ex- 
perienced difficulty  in  giving  it  fitly  significant  words. 

Sir  Austin  elaborated  his  theory  of  the  Organism  and 
the  Mechanism,  for  his  lawyer's  edification.  At  a  recur- 
rence of  the  world  "healthy"  Mr.  Thompson  caught  him 

'T  apprehended  you!  Oh,  I  agree  with  you,  Sir  Austin! 
entirely!  Allow  me  to  ring  for  my  son  Ripton.  I  think, 
if  you  condescend  to  examine  him,  you  will  say  that 
regular  habits,  and  a  diet  of  nothing  but  law-reading — 
for  other  forms  of  literature  I  strictly  interdict — have 
made  him  all  that  you  instance." 

Mr.  Thompson's  hand  was  on  the  bell.  Sir  Austin  ar- 
rested him. 

"Permit  me  to  see  the  lad  at  his  occupation,"  said  he. 

Our  old  friend  Ripton  sat  in  a  room  apart  with  the 
confidential  clerk,  Mr.  Beazley,  a  veteran  of  law,  now 
little  better  than  a  document,  looking  already  signed  and 
sealed,  and  shortly  to  be  delivered,  who  enjoined  nothing 
from  his  pupil  and  companion  save  absolute  silence,  and 
sounded  his  praises  to  his  father  at  the  close  of  days  when 
it  had  been  rigidly  observed — not  caring,  or  considering, 
the  finished  dry  old  document  that  he  was,  under  what 


110       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

kind  of  spell  a  turbulent  commonplace  youth  could  be 
charmed  into  stillness  for  six  hours  of  the  day.  Ripton 
was  supposed  to  be  devoted  to  the  study  of  Blackstone. 
A  tome  of  the  classic  legal  commentator  lay   extended 

outside  his  desk,  under  the  partially  lifted  lid  of  which 
nestled  the  assiduous  student's  head — law  being  thus 
brought  into  direel  contacl  with  his  brainpan.  The  office- 
door  opened,  and  he  heard  not;  his  name  was  called,  and 
he  remained  equally  moveless.  His  method  of  taking  in 
Blackstone  seemed  absorbing  as  it   was  novel. 

"Comparing  notes,  I  daresay,"  whispered  Mr.  Thompson 
to  Sir  Austin.     "I  call  that  study!" 

The  confidential  clerk  rose,  and  bowed  obsequious 
senility. 

"Is  it  like  this  every  day,  Beazley?"  Mr.  Thompson 
asked  with  parental  pride. 

'•Ahem!"  the  old  clerk  replied,  "he  is  like  this  every 
day,  sir.    I  could  not  ask  more  of  a  mouse." 

Sir  Austin  stepped  forward  to  the  desk.  His  proximity 
roused  one  of  Ripton's  senses,  which  blew  a  call  to  the 
others.  Down  went  the  lid  of  the  desk.  Dismay,  and  the 
ardours  of  study,  flashed  together  in  Ripton's  face.  He 
slouched  from  his  perch  with  the  air  of  one  who  means 
rather  to  defend  his  position  than  welcome  a  superior, 
the  right  hand  in  his  waistcoat  pocket  fumbling  a  key, 
the  left  catching  at  his  vacant  stool. 

Sir  Austin  put  two  fingers  on  the  youth's  shoulder,  and 
said,  leaning  his  head  a  little  on  one  side,  in  a  w?ay 
habitual  to  him,  "I  am  glad  to  find  my  son's  old  comrade 
thus  profitably  occupied.  I  know  what  study  is  myself. 
But  beware  of  prosecuting  it  too  excitedly!  Come!  you 
must  not  be  offended  at  our  interruption;  you  will  soon 
take  up  the  thread  again.  Besides,  you  know,  you  must 
get  accustomed  to  the  visits  of  your  client." 

So  condescending  and  kindly  did  this  speech  sound  to 
Mr.  Thompson,  that,  seeing  Ripton  still  preserve  his  ap- 
pearance of  disorder  and  sneaking  defiance,  he  thought 
fit  to  nod  and  frown  at  the  youth,  and  desired  him  to 
inform  the  baronet  what  particular  part  of  Blackstone  he 
was  absorbed  in  mastering  at  that   moment. 

Ripton  hesitated  an  instant,  and  blundered  out,  with 
dubious  articulation,  "The  Law  of  Gravelkind." 


UNMASKING  OF  EIPTON  THOMPSON      111 

"What  Law?"  said  Sir  Austin,  perplexed. 

"Gravelkind,"  again  rumbled  Kipton's  voice. 

Sir  Austin  turned  to  Mr.  Thompson  for  an  explanation. 
The  old  lawyer  was  shaking  his  law-box. 

"Singular!"  he  exclaimed.  "He  will  make  that  mis- 
take!    What  law,  sir?" 

Kipton  read  his  error  in  the  sternly  painful  expression 
of  his  father's  face,  and  corrected  himself.  "Gavelkind, 
sir." 

"Ah!"    said    Mr.    Thompson,    with    a    sigh    of    relief. 

"Gravelkind,  indeed!     Gavelkind!     An  old  Kentish" 

He  was  going  to  expound,  but  Sir  Austin  assured  him  he 
knew  it,  and  a  very  absurd  law  it  was,  adding,  "I  should 
like  to  look  at  your  son's  notes,  or  remarks  on  the  judi- 
ciousness of  that  family  arrangement,  if  he  has  any." 

"You  were  making  notes,  or  referring  to  them,  as  we 
entered,"  said  Mr.  Thompson  to  the  sucking  lawyer;  "a 
very  good  plan,  which  I  have  always  enjoined  on  you. 
Were  you  not  ?" 

Ripton  stammered  that  he  was  afraid  he  had  not  any 
notes  to  show,  worth  seeing. 

"What  were  you  doing  then,  sir?" 

"Making  notes,"  muttered  Ripton,  looking  incarnate 
subterfuge. 

"Exhibit!" 

Ripton  glanced  at  his  desk  and  then  at  his  father;  at  Sir 
Austin,  and  at  the  confidential  clerk.  He  took  out  his 
key.    It  would  not  fit  the  hole. 

"Exhibit!"  was  peremptorily  called  again. 

In  his  praiseworthy  efforts  to  accommodate  the  key- 
hole, Ripton  discovered  that  the  desk  was  already  un- 
locked. Mr.  Thompson  marched  to  it,  and  held  the  lid 
aloft.  A  book  was  lying  open  within,  which  Ripton  im- 
mediately hustled  among  a  mass  of  papers  and  tossed 
into  a  dark  corner,  not  before  the  glimpse  of  a  coloured 
frontispiece  was  caught  by  Sir  Austin's  eye. 

The  baronet  smiled,  and  said,  "You  study  Heraldry, 
too?    Are  you  fond  of  the  science?" 

Ripton  replied  that  he  was  very  fond  of  it — extremely 
attached,  and  threw  a  further  pile  of  papers  into  the  dark 
corner. 

The  notes  had  been  less  conspicuously  placed,  and  the 


in-      THE  ORDEAL  OF   RICHARD  FEVEREL 

Bearch  for  them  waa  tedious  and  vain.  Papers,  not  legal, 
or  the  fruits  of  study,  were  found,  that  made  Mr.  Thomp- 
son more  intimate  with  the  condition  of  his  son's  ex- 
chequer; nothing  in  the  shape  of  a  remark  on  the  Law 
of  Gavelkind. 

Mr.  Thompson  suggested  to  his  son  that  they  might  be 
among  those  scraps  he  had  thrown  carelessly  into  the  dark 
corner.  Ripton,  though  he  consented  to  inspect  them,  was 
positive  they  were  not  there. 

"What  have  we  here?"  said  Mr.  Thompson,  seizing  a 
neatly  folded  paper  addressed  to  the  Editor  of  a  law  pub- 
lication, as  Ripton  brought  them  forth,  one  by  one.  Forth- 
with Mr.  Thompson  fixed  his  spectacles  and  read  aloud : 

"To  the  Editor  of  the  'Jurist.' 

"Sir, — In  your  recent  observations  on  the  great  case 
of  Crim" 

Mr.  Thompson  hem'd !  and  stopped  short,  like  a  man 
who  comes  unexpectedly  upon  a  s-nake  in  his  path.  Mr. 
Beazley's  feet  shuffled.  Sir  Austin  changed  the  position 
of  an  arm. 

"It's  on  the  other  side,  I  think,"  gasped  Ripton. 

Mr.  Thompson  confidently  turned  over,  and  intoned 
with  emphasis. 

"To  Absalom,  the  son  of  David,  the  little  Jew  usurer  of 
Bond  Court,  Whitecross  Gutters,  for  his  introduction  to 
Venus,  I  O  U  Five  pounds,  when  I  can  pay. 

"Signed:    Ripton  Thompson." 

Underneath  this  fictitious  legal  instrument  was  dis- 
creetly  appended: 

"(Mem.     Document   not   binding.)'' 

There  was  a  pause:  an  awful  under-breath  of  sanctified 
wonderment  and  reproach  passed  round  the  office.  Sir 
Austin  assumed  an  attitude.  Mr.  Thompson  shed  a 
glance  of  severity  on  his  confidential  clerk,  who  parried 
by  throwing  up  his  hands. 

Ripton,   now   fairly   bewildered,    stuffed    another  paper 


UNMASKING  OF  EIPTON  THOMPSON      113 

under  his  father's  nose,  hoping  the  outside  perhaps  would 
satisfy  him:  it  was  marked  "Legal  Considerations."  Mr. 
Thompson  had  no  idea  of  sparing  or  shielding  his  son. 
In  fact,  like  many  men  whose  self-love  is  wounded  by 
their  offspring,  he  felt  vindictive,  and  was  ready  to 
sacrifice  him  up  to  a  certain  point,  for  the  good  of  both. 
He  therefore  opened  the  paper,  expecting  something  worse 
than  what  he  had  hitherto  seen,  despite  its  formal  head- 
ing, and  he  was  not  disappointed. 

The  "Legal  Considerations"  related  to  the  Case  regard- 
ing which  Ripton  had  conceived  it  imperative  upon  him  to 
address  a  letter  to  the  Editor  of  the  "Jurist,"  and  was  in- 
deed a  great  case,  and  an  ancient;  revived  apparently  for 
the  special  purpose  of  displaying  the  forensic  abilities  of 
the  Junior  Counsel  for  the  Plaintiff,  Mr.  Ripton  Thomp- 
son, whose  assistance  the  Attorney-General,  in  his  open- 
ing statement,  congratulated  himself  on  securing,  a  rather 
unusual  thing,  due  probably  to  the  eminence  and  renown 
of  that  youthful  gentleman  at  the  Bar  of  his  country. 
So  much  was  seen  from  the  copy  of  a  report  purporting 
to  be  extracted  from  a  newspaper,  and  prefixed  to  the 
Junior  Counsel's  remarks,  or  Legal  Considerations,  on 
the  conduct  of  the  Case,  the  admissibility  and  non-ad- 
missibility  of  certain  evidence,  and  the  ultimate  decision 
of  the  judges. 

Mr.  Thompson,  senior,  lifted  the  paper  high,  with  the 
spirit  of  one  prepared  to  do  execution  on  the  criminal,  and 
in  the  voice  of  a  town-crier,  varied  by  a  bitter  accentua- 
tion and  satiric  sing-song  tone,  deliberately  read: 

"Vulcan  v.  Mars. 

"The  Attorney-General,  assisted  by  Mr.  Ripton  Thomp- 
son, appeared  on  behalf  of  the  Plaintiff.  Mr.  Serjeant 
Cupid,  Q.C.,  and  Mr.  Capital  Opportunity,  for  the  De- 
fendant." 

"Oh !"  snapped  Mr.  Thompson,  senior,  peering  venom  at 
the  unfortunate  Ripton  over  his  spectacles,  "your  notes 
are  on  that  issue,  sir!     Thus  you  employ  your  time,  sir!" 

"With  another  side-shot  at  the  confidential  clerk,  who 
retired    immediately    behind    a    strong    entrenchment    of 


114      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

shrugs,    Mr.   Thompson   was  pushed   by   the  devil   of   his 
rancour  to  continue  reading: 

"This  Case  is  too  well  known  to  require  more  than 
a  partial  summary  of  particulars"    .    .    . 

"Ahem!  we  will  skip  the  particulars,  however  partial.*' 
said  Mr.  Thompson.  "Ah! — what  do  you  mean  here,  sir, 
— but  enough!  I  think  we  may  be  excused  your  Legal 
Considerations  on  such  a  Case.  This  is  how  you  employ 
your  law-studies,  sir!  You  put  them  to  this  purpose? 
Mr.  Beazley!  you  will  henceforward  sit  alone.  I  must  have 
this  young  man  under  my  own  eye.  Sir  Austin!  permit 
me  to  apologize  to  you  for  subjecting  you  to  a  scene  so 
disagreeable.     It  was  a  father's  duty  not  to  spare  him." 

Mr.  Thompson  wiped  his  forehead,  as  Brutus  might 
have  done  after  passing  judgment  on  the  scion  of  his 
house. 

"These  papers,"  he  went  on,  fluttering  Ripton's  precious 
lucubrations  in  a  waving  judicial  hand.  "I  shall  retain. 
The  day  will  come  when  he  will  regard  them  with  shame. 
And  it  shall  be  his  penance,  his  punishment,  to  do  so! 
Stop !"  he  cried,  as  Ripton  was  noiselessly  shutting  his 
desk,  "have  you  more  of  them,  sir;  of  a  similar  descrip- 
tion? Rout  them  out!  Let  us  know  you  at  your  worst. 
What  have  you  there — in  that  corner?" 

Ripton  was  understood  to  say  he  devoted  that  corner 
to  old  briefs  on  important  cases. 

Mr.  Thompson  thrust  his  trembling  fingers  among  the 
old  briefs,  and  turned  over  the  volume  Sir  Austin  had 
observed,  but  without  much  remarking  it,  for  his  sus- 
picions had  not  risen  to  print. 

"A  Manual  of  Heraldry?"  the  baronet  politely,  and  it 
may  be  ironically,  inquired,  before  it  could  well  escape. 

"I  like  it  very  much,"  said  Ripton,  clutching  the  book 
in   dreadful  torment. 

"Allow  me  to  see  that  you  have  our  arms  and  crest 
correct."     The  baronet  proffered  a  hand  for  the  book. 

"A  Griffin  between  two  Wheatsheaves,"  cried  Ripton, 
still  clutching  it  nervously. 

M  r.  Thompson,  without  any  notion  of  what  he  was  do- 
ing, drew  the  book  from  Ripton's  hold;  whereupon  the  two 


GOOD  WINE  AND  GOOD  BLOOD  115 

seniors  laid  their  grey  heads  together  over  the  title-page. 
It  set  forth  in  attractive  characters  beside  a  coloured 
frontispiece,  which  embodied  the  promise  displayed  there, 
the  entrancing  adventures  of  Miss  Random,  a  strange 
young  lady. 

Had  there  been  a  Black  Hole  within  the  area  of  those 
law  regions  to  consign  Ripton  to  there  and  then,  or  an 
Iron  Rod  handy  to  mortify  his  sinful  flesh,  Mr.  Thompson 
would  have  used  them.  As  it  was,  he  contented  himself 
by  looking  Black  Holes  and  Iron  Rods  at  the  detected 
youth,  who  sat  on  his  perch  insensible  to  what  might 
happen  next,  collapsed. 

Mr.  Thompson  cast  the  wicked  creature  down  with  a 
"Pah !"  He,  however,  took  her  up  again,  and  strode  away 
with  her.  Sir  Austin  gave  Ripton  a  forefinger,  and  kindly 
touched  his  head,  saying,  "Good-bye,  boy !  At  some  future 
date  Richard  will  be  happy  to  see  you  at  Raynham." 

Undoubtedly  this  was  a  great  triumph  to  the  System! 


CHAPTER    XVII 
GOOD   WINE    AND    GOOD    BLOOD 

The  conversation  between  solicitor  and  client  was  re- 
sumed. 

"Is  it  possible,"  quoth  Mr.  Thompson,  the  moment  he 
had  ushered  his  client  into  his  private  room,  "that  you  will 
consent,  Sir  Austin,  to  see  him  and  receive  him  again?" 

"Certainly,"  the  baronet  replied.  "Why  not  ?  This  by 
no  means  astonishes  me.  When  there  is  no  longer  danger 
to  my  son  he  will  be  welcome  as  he  was  before.  He  is  a 
schoolboy.  I  knew  it.  I  expected  it.  The  results  of  your 
principle,  Thompson !" 

"One  of  the  very  worst  books  of  that  abominable  class !" 
exclaimed  the  old  lawyer,  opening  at  the  coloured  frontis- 
piece, from  which  brazen  Miss  Random  smiled  bewitch- 
ingly  out,  as  if  she  had  no  doubt  of  captivating  Time  and 
all  his  veterans  on  a  fair  field.  "Pah !"  he  shut  her  to 
with  the  energy  he  would  have  given  to  the  office  of  pub- 
licly slapping  her  face;  "from  this  day  I  diet  him  on  bread 


L16      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

and  water — rescind  his  pocket-money! — How  he  could 
have  got  hold  of  such  a  book!  How  he — !  And  what 
ideas!  Concealing  them  from  me  as  he  has  done  so 
cunningly]  He  trifles  with  vice!  His  mind  is  in  a  putrid 
state!  I  might  have  believed — I  did  believe — I  might 
have  gone  on  believing — my  son  Ripton  to  be  a  moral 
young  man  !"  The  old  lawyer  interjected  on  the  delusion 
of  fathers,  and  sat  down  in  a  lamentable  abstraction. 

''The  lad  has  come  out!"  said  Sir  Austin.  ''His  adop- 
tion'of  the  legal  form  is  amusing.  He  trifles  with  vice, 
true:  people  newly  initiated  are  as  hardy  as  its  intimates, 
and  a  young  sinner's  amusements  will  resemble  those  of  a 
confirmed  debauchee.  The  satiated,  and  the  insatiate,  ap- 
petite alike  appeal  to  extremes.  You  are  astonished  at 
this  revelation  of  your  son's  condition.  I  expected  it; 
though  assuredly,  believe  me,  not  this  sudden  and  indis- 
putable proof  of  it.  But  I  knew  that  the  seed  was  in 
him,  and  therefore  I  have  not  latterly  invited  him  to 
Raynham.  School,  and  the  corruption  there,  will  bear 
its  fruits  sooner  or  later.  I  could  advise  you,  Thompson, 
what  to  do  with  him:  it  would  be  my  plan." 

Mr.  Thompson  murmured,  like  a  true  courtier,  that  he 
should  esteem  it  an  honour  to  be  favoured  with  Sir  Austin 
Eeverel's  advice:  secretly  resolute,  like  a  true  Briton,  to 
follow  his  own. 

"Let  him,  then,"  continued  the  baronet,  "see  vice  in  its 
nakedness.  While  he  has  yet  some  innocence,  nauseate 
him!  Vice,  taken  little  by  little,  usurps  gradually  the 
whole  creature.  My  counsel  to  you,  Thompson,  would  be, 
to  drag  him  through  the  sinks  of  town." 

Mr.  Thompson  began  to  blink  again. 

"Oh,  I  shall  punish  him,  Sir  Austin!  Do  not  fear  me, 
sir.     I  have  no  tenderness  for  vice." 

"That  is  not  what  is  wanted,  Thompson.  You  mistake 
me.  He  should  be  dealt  with  gently.  Heavens!  do  you 
hope  to  make  him  hate  vice  by  making  him  a  martyr  for 
its  sake?  You  must  descend  from  the  pedestal  of  age  to 
become  his  Mentor:  cause  him  to  see  how  certainly  and 
pitilessly  vice  itself  punishes:  accompany  him  into  its 
haunts" 

"Over  town?"     broke  forth  Mr.  Thompson. 

"Over  town,"  said  the  baronet. 


GOOD  WINE  AND  GOOD  BLOOD  117 

"And  depend  upon  it,"  he  added,  "that,  until  fathers  act 
thoroughly  up  to  their  duty,  we  shall  see  the  sights  we  see 
in  great  cities,  and  hear  the  tales  we  hear  in  little  villages, 
with  death  and  calamity  in  our  homes,  and  a  legacy  of 
sorrow  and  shame  to  the  generations  to  come.  I  do  aver," 
he  exclaimed,  becoming  excited,  "that,  if  it  were  not  for 
the  duty  to  my  son,  and  the  hope  I  cherish  in  him,  I,  see- 
ing the  accumulation  of  misery  we  are  handing  down  to 
an  innocent  posterity — to  whom,  through  our  sin,  the  fresh 
breath  of  life  will  be  foul — I — yes !  I  would  hide  my 
name!  For  whither  are  we  tending?  What  home  is  pure 
absolutely?  What  cannot  our  doctors  and  lawyers  tell 
us?" 

Mr.  Thompson  acquiesced  significantly. 

"And  what  is  to  come  of  this?"  Sir  Austin  continued. 
"When  the  sins  of  the  fathers  are  multiplied  by  the  sons, 
is  not  perdition  the  final  sum  of  things  ?  And  is  not  life, 
the  boon  of  heaven,  growing  to  be  the  devil's  game  utterly  ? 
But  for  my  son,  I  would  hide  my  name.  I  would  not  be- 
queath it  to  be  cursed  by  them  that  walk  above  my  grave !" 

This  was  indeed  a  terrible  view  of  existence.  Mr. 
^Thompson  felt  uneasy.  There  was  a  dignity  in  his  client, 
an  impressiveness  in  his  speech,  that  silenced  remonstrat- 
ing reason  and  the  cry  of  long  years  of  comfortable 
respectability.  Mr.  Thompson  went  to  church  regularly; 
paid  his  rates  and  dues  without  overmuch,  or  at  least 
more  than  common,  grumbling.  On  the  surface  he  was 
a  good  citizen,  fond  of  his  children,  faithful  to  his  wife, 
devoutly  marching  to  a  fair  seat  in  heaven  on  a  path 
paved  by  something  better  than  a  thousand  a  year.  But 
here  was  a  man  sighting  him  from  below  the  surface, 
and  though  it  was  an  unfair,  unaccustomed,  not  to  say 
un-English,  method  of  regarding  one's  fellow-man,  Mr. 
Thompson  was  troubled  by  it.  What  though  his  client 
exaggerated?  Facts  were  at  the  bottom  of  what  he  said. 
And  he  was  acute — he  had  unmasked  Ripton!  Since  Rip- 
ton's  exposure  he  winced  at  a  personal  application  in  the 
text  his  client  preached  from.  Possibly  this  was  the  secret 
source  of  part  of  his  anger  against  that  peccant  youth. 

Mr.  Thompson  shook  his  head,  and,  with  dolefully  puck- 
ered visage  and  a  pitiable  contraction  of  his  shoulders, 
rose  slowly  up  from  his  chair.    Apparently  he  was  about 


lis       THE  ORDKAL  i)K   RICHARD   1  KVKKKL 

to  speak,  but  he  straightway  turned  and  went  meditatively 
to  a  ^de-recess  in  the  room,  whereof  he  opened  a  door, 
drew  forth  a  tray  and  a  decanter  labelled  PORT,  rilled  a 
glass  for  his  client,  deferentially  invited  him  to  partake 
oi  it;  filled  another  glass  for  himself,  and  drank. 

That   was  his  reply. 

Sir  Austin  never  took  wine  before  dinner.  Thompson 
had  looked  as  if  he  meant  to  speak :  he  waited  for  Thomp- 
son's words. 

Mr.  Thompson  saw  that,  as  his  client  did  not  join  him 
in  his  glass,  the  eloquence  of  that  Porty  reply  was  lost 
on  his  client. 

Having  slowly  ingurgitated  and  meditated  upon  this 
precious  draught,  and  turned  its  flavour  over  and  over 
with  an  aspect  of  potent  Judicial  wisdom  (one  might 
have  thought  that  he  was  weighing  mankind  in  the  bal- 
ance), the  old  lawyer  heaved,  and  said,  sharpening  his 
lips  over  the  admirable  vintage,  "The  world  is  in  a  very 
sad  state,  I  fear,  Sir  Austin!" 

His  client  gazed  at  him  queerly. 

''But  that,"  Mr.  Thompson  added  immediately,  ill-con- 
cealing by  his  gaze  the  glowing  intestinal  congratulations, 
going  on  within  him,  ''that  is,  I  think  you  would  say,  Sir 
Austin — if  I  could  but  prevail  upon  you — a  tolerably 
good  character  wine!" 

"There's  virtue  somewhere,  I  see,  Thompson!"  Sir 
Austin  murmured,  without  disturbing  his  legal  adviser's 
dimples. 

The  old  lawyer  sat  down  to  finish  his  glass,  saying,  that 
such  a  wine  was  not  to  be  had  everywhere. 

They  were  then  outwardly  silent  for  a  space.  Inwardly 
one  of  them  was  full  of  riot  and  jubilant  uproar:  as  if  the 
solemn  fields  of  law  were  suddenly  to  be  invaded  and 
possessed  by  troops  of  Bacchanals:  and  to  preserve  a 
decently  wretched  physiognomy  over  it,  and  keep  on  terms 
with  his  companion,  he  had  to  grimace  like  a  melancholy 
clown  in  a  pantomime. 

M  r.  Thompson  brushed  back  his  hair.  The  baronet  was 
still  expectant.  Mr.  Thompson  sighed  deeply,  and  emptied 
his  glass.  He  combated  the  change  that  had  come  over 
him.  He  tried  not  to  see  Ruby.  lie  tried  to  feel  miser- 
able,  and   it  was  not   in  him.     He  spoke,  drawing  what 


GOOD  WINE  AND  GOOD  BLOOD  119 

appropriate  inspirations  he  could  from  his  client's  coun- 
tenance, to  show  that  they  had  views  in  common:  "De- 
generating sadly,  I  fear!" 

The  baronet  nodded. 

"According  to  what  my  wine-merchants  say,"  continued 
Mr.  Thompson,  "there  can  be  no  doubt  about  it." 

Sir  Austin  stared. 

"It's  the  grape,  or  the  ground,  or  something,"  Mr. 
Thompson  went  on.  "All  I  can  say  is,  our  youngsters 
will  have  a  bad  look-out!  In  my  opinion  Government 
should  be  compelled  to  send  out  a  Commission  to  inquire 
into  the  cause.  To  Englishmen  it  would  be  a  public 
calamity.  It  surprises  me — I  hear  men  sit  and  talk 
despondently  of  this  extraordinary  disease  of  the  vine,  and 
not  one  of  them  seems  to  think  it  incumbent  on  him  to 
act,  and  do  his  best  to  stop  it."  He  fronted  his  client 
like  a  man  who  accuses  an  enormous  public  delinquency. 
"Nobody  makes  a  stir!  The  apathy  of  Englishmen  will 
become  proverbial.  Pray,  try  it,  Sir  Austin!  Pray,  allow 
me.  Such  a  wine  cannot  disagree  at  any  hour.  Do !  I 
am  allowanced  two  glasses  three  hours  before  dinner. 
Stomachic.  I  find  it  agree  with  me  surprisingly:  quite 
a  new  man.  I  suppose  it  will  last  our  time.  It  must ! 
What  should  we  do  ?  There's  no  Law  possible  without  it. 
Not  a  lawyer  of  us  could  live.  Ours  is  an  occupation 
which  dries  the  blood." 

The  scene  with  Ripton  had  unnerved  him,  the  wine  had 
renovated,  and  gratitude  to  the  wine  inspired  his  tongue. 
He  thought  that  his  client,  of  the  whimsical  mind,  though 
undoubtedly  correct  moral  views,  had  need  of  a  glass. 

"Now  that  very  wine — Sir  Austin — I  think  I  do  not  err 
in  saying,  that  very  wine  your  respected  father,  Sir 
Pylcher  Feverel,  used  to  taste  whenever  he  came  to  con- 
sult my  father,  when  I  was  a  boy.  And  I  remember  one 
day  being  called  in,  and  Sir  Pylcher  himself  poured  me 
out  a  glass.  I  wish  I  could  call  in  Ripton  now,  and  do 
the  same.  No !  Leniency  in  such  a  case  as  that ! — The 
wine  would  not  hurt  him — I  doubt  if  there  be  much  left 
for  him  to  welcome  his  guests  with.  Ha!  ha!  Now  if 
I  could  persuade  you,  Sir  Austin,  as  you  do  not  take 
wine  before  dinner,  some  day  to  favour  me  with  your 
company  at  my  little  country  cottage — I  have  a  wine  there 


L20      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

— the  fellow  to  thai — I  think  ymi  would,  I  do  think  you 
would" — -Mr.  Thompson  meant  to  say,  he  thought  his 
client  would  arrive  at  something  of  a  similar  jocund 
contemplation  of  his  follows  in  their  degeneracy  that  in- 
spirited lawyers  alter  potation,  but  condensed  the  sensual 
promise  into  "highly  approve.'' 

Sir  Austin  speculated  on  his  legal  adviser  with  a  sour 
mouth  comically  compressed. 

It  stood  clear  to  him  that  Thompson  before  his  Port, 
and  Thompson  after,  were  two  (Liferent  men.  To  in- 
doctrinate him  now  was  too  late:  it  was  perhaps  the  time 
to  make  the  positive  use  of  him  he  wanted. 

He  pencilled  on  a  handy  slip  of  paper:  ''Two  prongs 
of  a  fork;  the  World  stuck  between  them — Port  and  the 
Palate:  'Tis  one  which  fails  first — Down  goes  World;" 
and  again  the  hieroglyph — "Port-spectacles."  He  said, 
"I  shall  gladly  accompany  you  this  evening,  Thompson." 
words  that  transfigured  the  delighted  lawyer,  and  ensigned 
the  skeleton  of  a  great  Aphorism  to  his  pocket,  there  to 
gather  flesh  and  form,  with  numberless  others  in  a  like 
condition. 

"I  came  to  visit  my  lawyer,"  lie  said  to  himself.  "I 
think  I  have  been  dealing  with  The  World  in  epitome!" 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

THE    SYSTEM    ENCOUNTERS    THE    WILD    OATS 
SPECIAL    PLEA 

The  rumour  circulated  that  Sir  Austin  Feverel,  the  re- 
cluse of  Raynham.  the  rank  misogynist,  the  rich  baronet, 
was  in  town,  looking  out  a  bride  for  his  only  son  and 
uncorrupted  heir.  Doctor  Benjamin  Bairam  was  the  ex- 
cellent authority.  Doctor  Bairam  had  safely  delivered 
.Mrs.  Deborah  Gossip  of  this  interesting  bantling,  which 
was  forthwith  dandled  in  dozens  of  feminine  laps.  Doctor 
Bairam  could  boast  the  first  interview  with  the  famous 
roe] use.  He  had  it  from  his  own  lips  that  the  object 
of  the  baronet  was  to  look  out  a  bride  for  his  only  son 
and  uncorrupted   heir;    "and,"   added   the   doctor,   "she'll 


THE  WILD  OATS  PLEA  121 

be  lucky  who  gets  him."  Which  was  interpreted  to  mean, 
that  he  would  be  a  catch;  the  doctor  probably  intending 
to  allude  to  certain  extraordinary  difficulties  in  the  way 
of  a  choice. 

A  demand  was  made  on  the  publisher  of  The  Pilgrim's 
Scrip  for  all  his  outstanding  copies.  Conventionalities 
were  defied.  A  summer-shower  of  cards  fell  on  the 
baronet's  table. 

He  had  few  male  friends.  He  shunned  the  Clubs  as 
nests  of  scandal.  The  cards  he  contemplated  were  mostly 
those  of  the  sex,  with  the  husband,  if  there  was  a 
husband,  evidently  dragged  in  for  propriety's  sake.  He 
perused  the  cards  and  smiled.  He  knew  their  purpose. 
What  terrible  light  Thompson  and  Bairam  had  thrown 
on  some  of  them!  Heavens!  in  what  a  state  was  the 
blood  of  this  Empire. 

Before  commencing  his  campaign  he  called  on  two 
ancient  intimates,  Lord  Heddon,  and  his  distant  cousin 
Darley  Absworthy,  both  Members  of  Parliament,  useful 
men,  though  gouty,  who  had  sown  in  their  time  a  fine 
crop  of  wild  oats,  and  advocated  the  advantage  of  doing 
so,  seeing  that  they  did  not  fancy  themselves  the  worse 
for  it.  He  found  one  with  an  imbecile  son  and  the  other 
with  consumptive  daughters.  "So  much,"  he  wrote  in 
the  Note-book,   "for  the  Wild  Oats  theory!" 

Darley  was  proud  of  his  daughters'  white  and  pink 
skins.  "Beautiful  complexions,"  he  called  them.  The 
eldest  was  in  the  market,  immensely  admired.  Sir  Austin 
was  introduced  to  her.  She  talked  fluently  and  sweetly. 
A  youth  not  on  his  guard,  a  simple  school-boy  youth,  or 
even  a  man,  might  have  fallen  in  love  with  her,  she  was 
so  affable  and  fair.  There  was  something  poetic  about 
her.  And  she  was  quite  well,  she  said,  the  baronet  fre- 
quently questioning  her  on  that  point.  She  intimated 
that  she  was  robust;  but  towards  the  close  of  their  con- 
versation her  hand  would  now  and  then  travel  to  her 
side,  and  she  breathed  painfully  an  instant,  saying,  "Isn't 
it  odd?  Dora,  Adela,  and  myself,  we  all  feel  the  same 
queer  sensation — about  the  heart,  I  think  it  is — after 
talking  much." 

Sir  Austin  nodded  and  blinked  sadly,  exclaiming  to  his 
soul,  "Wild  oats!    wild  oats!" 


122      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

lie  did  not  ask  permission  to  see  Dora  and  Adela. 

Lord  Heddon  vehemently  preached  wild  oats. 

"It's  all  nonsense,  Feverel,''  he  said,  "about  bringing  up 
a  lad  out  of  the  common  way.  He's  all  the  better  for  a 
little  racketing  when  he's  green — feels  his  bone  and  muscle 
— learns  to  knew  the  world.  He'll  never  be  a  man  if 
he  hasn't  played  at  the  old  game  one  time  in  his  life, 
and  the  earlier  the  better.  I've  always  found  the  best 
fellows  were  wildish  once.  I  don't  care  what  he  does 
when  he's  a  greenhorn;  besides,  he's  got  an  excuse  for  it 
then.  You  can't  expect  to  have  a  man,  if  he  doesn't  take 
a  man's  food.  You'll  have  a  milksop.  And,  depend  upon 
it,  when  he  does  break  out  he'll  go  to  the  devil,  and 
nobody  pities  him.  Look  what  those  fellows,  the  grocers, 
do  when  they  get  hold  of  a  young — what  d'ye  call  'em  ? — 
apprentice.  They  know  the  scoundrel  was  born  with  a 
sweet  tooth.  Well!  they  give  him  the  run  of  the  shop, 
and  in  a  very  short  time  he  soberly  deals  out  the  goods, 
a  devilish  deal  too  wise  to  abstract  a  morsel  even  for 
the  pleasure  of  stealing.  I  know  you  have  contrary 
theories.  You  hold  that  the  young  grocer  should  have  a 
soul  above  sugar.  It  won't  do !  Take  my  word  for  it, 
Feverel,  it's  a  dangerous  experiment,  that  of  bringing  up 
flesh  and  blood  in  harness.  No  colt  will  bear  it,  or  he's 
a  tame  beast.  And  look  you:  take  it  on  medical  grounds. 
Early  excesses  the  frame  will  recover  from :  late  ones 
break  the  constitution.  There's  the  case  in  a  nutshell. 
How's  your  son?" 

"Sound  and  well!"  replied  Sir  Austin.     "And  yours?" 

"Oh,  Lipscombe's  always  the  same!"  Lord  Heddon 
sighed  peevishly.  'Tie's  quiet — that's  one  good  thing; 
but  there's  no  getting  the  country  to  take  him,  so  I 
must  give  up  hopes  of  that." 

Lord  Lipscombe  entering  the  room  just  then,  Sir  Austin 
surveyed  him,  and  was  not  astonished  at  the  refusal  of 
the  country  to  take  him. 

"Wild  oats!"  he  thought,  as  he  contemplated  the  head- 
less, degenerate,  weedy  issue  and  result. 

Both  Darley  Absworthy  and  Lord  Heddon  spoke  of  the 
murriage  of  their  offspring  as  a  matter  of  course.  "And 
if  I  wore  not  a  coward,"  Sir  Austin  confessed  to  himself, 
"I  should  stand  forth  and  forbid  the  banns!     This  uni- 


THE  WILD   OATS  PLEA  123 

versal  ignorance  of  the  inevitable  consequence  of  sin  is 
frightful !  The  wild  oats  plea  is  a  torpedo  that  seems 
to  have  struck  the  world,  and  rendered  it  morally  insen- 
sible." However,  they  silenced  him.  He  was  obliged  to 
spare  their  feelings  on  a  subject  to  him  so  deeply  sacred. 
The  healthful  image  of  his  noble  boy  rose  before  him,  a 
triumphant  living  rejoinder  to  any  hostile  argument. 

He  was  content  to  remark  to  his  doctor,  that  he  thought 
the  third  generation  of  wild  oats  would  be  a  pretty  thin 
crop! 

Families  against  whom  neither  Thompson  lawyer  nor 
Bairam  physician  could  recollect  a  progenitorial  blot, 
either  on  the  male  or  female  side,  were  not  numerous. 
"Only,"  said  the  doctor,  "you  really  must  not  be  too 
exacting  in  these  days,  my  dear  Sir  Austin.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  contest  your  principle,  and  you  are  doing  mankind 
incalculable  service  in  calling  its  attention  to  this  the 
gravest  of  its  duties:  but  as  the  stream  of  civilization 
progresses  we  must  be  a  little  taken  in  the  lump,  as  it 
were.  The  world  is,  I  can  assure  you — and  I  do  not 
look  only  above  the  surface,  you  can  believe — the  world 
is  awakening  to  the  vital  importance  of  the  question." 

"Doctor,"  replied  Sir  Austin,  "if  you  had  a  pure-blood 
Arab  barb  would  you  cross  him  with  a  screw?" 

"Decidedly  not,"  said  the  doctor. 

"Then  permit  me  to  say,  I  shall  employ  every  care  to 
match  my  son  according  to  his  merits,"  Sir  Austin  re- 
turned. "I  trust  the  world  is  awakening,  as  you  observe. 
I  have  been  to  my  publisher,  since  my  arrival  in  town, 
with  a  manuscript  'Proposal  for  a  New  System  of  Edu- 
cation of  our  British  Youth,'  which  may  come  in  oppor- 
tunely.    I  think  I  am  entitled  to  speak  on  that  subject." 

"Certainly,"  said  the  doctor.  "You  will  admit,  Sir 
Austin,  that,  compared  with  continental  nations — our 
neighbours,  for  instance — we  shine  to  advantage,  in 
morals,  as  in  everything  else.     I  hope  you  admit  that?" 

"I  find  no  consolation  in  shining  by  comparison  with 
a  lower  standard,"  said  the  baronet.  "If  I  compare  the 
enlightenment  of  your  views — for  you  admit  my  principle 
— with  the  obstinate  incredulity  of  a  country  doctor's, 
who  sees  nothing  of  the  world,  you  are  hardly  flattered, 
I  presume?" 


124       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

Doctor  Bairam  would  hardly  be  flattered  at  such  a 
comparison,  assuredly,  he  interjected. 

"Besides,"  added  t ho  baronet,  "the  French  make  no 
pretences,  and  thereby  escape  one  of  the  main  penalties 
of  hypocrisy.  Whereas  we! — but  I  am  not  their  advo- 
cate,  credit  me.  It  is  better,  perhaps,  to  pay  our  homage  to 
virtue.   At  least  it  delays  the  spread  of  entire  corruptness." 

Doctor  Bairam  wished  the  baronet  success,  and  dili- 
gently endeavoured  to  assist  his  search  for  a  mate  worthy 
of  the  pure-blood  barb,  by  putting  several  mamas,  whom 
he  visited,  on  the  alert. 


CHAPTER   XIX 
A   DIVERSION   PLAYED    ON   A  PENNY- WHISTLE 

Away  with  Systems!  Away  with  a  corrupt  World!  Let 
us  breathe  the  air  of  the  Enchanted  Island. 

Golden  lie  the  meadows:  golden  run  the  streams;  red 
gold  is  on  the  pine-stems.  The  sun  is  coming  down  to 
earth,  and  walks  the  fields  and  the  waters. 

The  sun  is  coming  down  to  earth,  and  the  fields  and  the 
waters  shout  to  him  golden  shouts.  He  comes,  and  his 
heralds  run  before  him,  and  touch  the  leaves  of  oaks  and 
planes  and  beeches  lucid  green,  and  the  pine-stems  redder 
gold;  leaving  brightest  footprints  upon  thickly-weeded 
banks,  where  the  foxglove's  last  upper-bells  incline,  and 
bramble-shoots  wander  amid  moist  rich  herbage.  The 
plumes  of  the  woodland  are  alight;  and  beyond  them,  over 
the  open,  'tis  a  race  with  the  long-thrown  shadows;  a  race 
across  the  heaths  and  up  the  hills,  till,  at  the  farthest 
bourne  of  mounted  eastern  cloud,  the  heralds  of  the  sun 
lay  rosy  fingers  and  rest. 

Sweet  are  the  shy  recesses  of  the  woodland.  The  ray 
treads  softly  there.  A  film  athwart  the  pathway  quivers 
many-hued  against  purple  shade  fragrant  with  warm 
pines,  deep  moss-beds,  feathery  ferns.  The  little  brown 
squirrel  drops  tail,  and  leaps;  the  inmost  bird  is  startled 
to  a  chance  tuneless  note.  From  silence  into  silence  things 
move. 


A  DIVERSION  OX  A  PENNY- WHISTLE      125 

Peeps  of  the  revelling  splendour  above  and  around 
enliven  the  conscious  full  heart  within.  The  flaming 
West,  the  crimson  heights,  shower  their  glories  through 
voluminous  leafage.  But  these  are  bowers  where  deep 
bliss  dwells,  imperial  joy,  that  owes  no  fealty  to  yonder 
glories,  in  which  the  young  lamb  gambols  and  the  spirits 
of  men  are  glad.  Descend,  great  Radiance!  embrace 
creation  with  beneficent  fire,  and  pass  from  us!  You  and 
the  vice-regal  light  that  succeeds  to  you,  and  all  heavenly 
pageants,  are  the  ministers  and  the  slaves  of  the  throbbing 
content  within. 

For  this  is  the  home  of  the  enchantment.  Here,  se- 
cluded from  vexed  shores,  the  prince  and  princess  of  the 
island  meet:  here  like  darkling  nightingales  they  sit,  and 
into  eyes  and  ears  and  hands  pour  endless  ever-fresh 
treasures  of  their  souls. 

Roll  on,  grinding  wheels  of  the  world:  cries  of  ships 
going  down  in  a  calm,  groans  of  a  System  which  will  not 
know  its  rightful  hour  of  exultation,  complain  to  the 
universe.    You  are  not  heard  here. 

He  calls  her  by  her  name,  Lucy:  and  she,  blushing  at 
her  great  boldness,  has  called  him  by  his,  Richard.  Those 
two  names  are  the  key-notes  of  the  wonderful  harmonies 
the  angels  sing  aloft. 

"Lucy!  my  beloved!" 

"O  Richard!" 

Out  in  the  world  there,  on  the  skirts  of  the  wood- 
land, a  sheep-boy  pipes  to  meditative  eye  on  a  penny- 
whistle. 

Love's  musical  instrument  is  as  old,  and  as  poor:  it  has 
but  two  stops;  and  yet,  you  see,  the  cunning  musician  does 
thus  much  with  it! 

Other  speech  they  have  little;  light  foam  playing  upon 
waves  of  feeling,  and  of  feeling  compact,  that  bursts  only 
when  the  sweeping  volume  is  too  wild,  and  is  no  more 
than  their  sigh  of  tenderness  spoken. 

Perhaps  love  played  his  tune  so  well  because  their 
natures  had  unblunted  edges,  and  were  keen  for  bliss, 
confiding  in  it  as  natural  food.  To  gentlemen  and  ladies 
he  fine-draws  upon  the  viol,  ravishingly;  or  blows  into 
the  mellow  bassoon;  or  rouses  the  heroic  ardours  of  the 
trumpet;  or,  it  may  be,  commands  the  whole  Orchestra 


126      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

for  them.  And  they  are  pleased.  He  is  still  the  cunning 
musician.  They  languish,  and  taste  ecstasy:  but  it  is, 
however  sonorous,  an  earthly  concert.  For  them  the 
spheres  move  not  to  two  notes.  They  have  lost,  or  for- 
feited and  never  known,  the  first  supersensual  spring  of 
the  ripe  senses  into  passion;  when  they  carry  the  soul 
with  them,  and  have  the  privileges  of  spirits  to  walk  dis- 
embodied, boundlessly  to  feel.  Or  one  has  it,  and  the 
other  is  a  dead  body.  Ambrosia  let  them  eat,  and  drink 
the  nectar:  here  sit  a  couple  to  whom  Love's  simple  bread 
and  water  is  a  finer  feast. 

Pipe,  happy  sheep-boy,  Love!  Irradiated  angels,  unfold 
your  wings  and  lift  your  voices! 

They  have  outflown  philosophy.  Their  instinct  has  shot 
beyond  the  ken  of  science.  They  were  made  for  their 
Eden. 

"And  this  divine  gift  was  in  store  for  me!" 

So  runs  the  internal  outcry  of  each,  clasping  each:  it 
is  their  recurring  refrain  to  the  harmonies.  How  it 
illumined  the  years  gone  by  and  suffused  the  living 
Future ! 

"You  for  me:  I  for  you!" 

"We  are  born  for  each  other!" 

They  believe  that  the  angels  have  been  busy  about  them 
from  their  cradles.  The  celestial  hosts  have  worthily 
striven  to  bring  them  together.  And,  O  Victory!  O 
wonder!  after  toil  and  pain,  and  difficulties  exceeding,  the 
celestial  hosts  have  succeeded! 

"Here  we  two  sit  who  are  written  above  as  one!" 

Pipe,  happy  Love!  pipe  on  to  these  dear  innocents! 

The  tide  of  colour  has  ebbed  from  the  upper  sky.  In 
the  West  the  sea  of  sunken  fire  draws  back;  and  the 
stars  leap  forth,  and  tremble,  and  retire  before  the  ad- 
vancing moon,  who  slips  the  silver  train  of  cloud  from  her 
shoulders,  and,  with  her  foot  upon  the  pine-tops,  surveys 
heaven. 

"Lucy,  did  you  never  dream  of  meeting  me?" 

"O  Richard !  yes ;  for  I  remembered  you." 

"Lucv!  and  did  you  pray  that  we  might  meet?" 

"I  did!" 

Young  as  when  she  looked  upon  the  lovers  in  Paradise, 
the  fair  Immortal  journeys  onward.     Fronting  her,  it  is 


TREATMENT   OF  A  DRAGON  127 

not  night  but  veiled  day.  Full  half  the  sky  is  flushed. 
Not  darkness,  not  day,  but  the  nuptials  of  the  two. 

"My  own!  my  own  for  ever!  You  are  pledged  to  me? 
Whisper!" 

He  hears  the  delicious  music. 

"And  you  are  mine?" 

A  soft  beam  travels  to  the  fern-covert  under  the  pine- 
wood  where  they  sit,  and  for  answer  he  has  her  eyes: 
turned  to  him  an  instant,  timidly  fluttering  over  the 
depths  of  his,  and  then  downcast;  for  through  her  eyes 
her  soul  is  naked  to  him. 

"Lucy!  my  bride!  my  life!" 

The  night-jar  spins  his  dark  monotony  on  the  branch  of 
the  pine.  The  soft  beam  travels  round  them,  and  listens 
to  their  hearts.     Their  lips  are  locked. 

Pipe  no  more,  Love,  for  a  time!  Pipe  as  you  will  you 
cannot  express  their  first  kiss;  nothing  of  its  sweetness, 
and  of  the  sacredness  of  it  nothing.  St.  Cecilia  up  aloft, 
before  the  silver  organ-pipes  of  Paradise,  pressing  fingers 
upon  all  the  notes  of  which  Love  is  but  one,  from  her 
you  may  hear  it. 

So  Love  is  silent.  Out  in  the  world  there,  on  the  skirts 
of  the  woodland,  the  self-satisfied  sheep-boy  delivers  a 
last  complacent  squint  down  the  length  of  his  penny- 
whistle,  and,  with  a  flourish  correspondingly  awry,  he  also 
marches  into  silence,  hailed  by  supper.  The  woods  are 
still.  There  is  heard  but  the  night-jar  spinning  on  the 
pine-branch,  circled  by  moonlight. 


CHAPTER  XX 

CELEBRATES    THE    TIME-HONOURED    TREATMENT    OF 
A  DRAGON  BY  THE  HERO 

Enchanted  Islands  have  not  yet  rooted  out  their  old 
brood  of  dragons.  Wherever  there  is  romance,  these  mon- 
sters come  by  inimical  attraction.  Because  the  heavens 
are  certainly  propitious  to  true  lovers,  the  beasts  of  the 
abysses  are  banded  to  destroy  them,  stimulated  by  innu- 


L28      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

merable  sad  victories;  and  every  love-tale  is  an  Epic  War 
of  the  upper  and  lower  powers.  I  wish  pood  fairies  were 
a  little  more  active.  They  seem  to  he  cajoled  into  security 
by  the  happiness  of  their  favourites;  whereas  the  wicked 
are  always  alert,  and  circumspect.  They  let  the  little  ones 
shut  their  eyes  to  fancy  they  are  not  seen,  and  then  com- 
mence. 

These  appointments  and  meetings,  involving  a  start 
from  the  dinner-table  at  the  hour  of  contemplative  di- 
gestion and  prime  claret;  the  hour  when  the  wise  youth 
Adrian  delighted  to  talk  at  his  ease — to  recline  in  dreamy 
consciousness  that  a  work  of  good  was  going  on  inside 
him;  these  abstractions  from  his  studies,  excesses  of 
gaiety,  and  glumness,  heavings  of  the  chest,  and  other  odd 
signs,  but  mainly  the  disgusting  behaviour  of  his  pupil 
at  the  dinner-table,  taught  Adrian  to  understand,  though 
the  young  gentleman  was  clever  in  excuses,  that  he  had 
somehow  learnt  there  was  another  half  to  the  divided 
Apple  of  Creation,  and  had  embarked  upon  the  great 
voyage  of  discovery  of  the  difference  between  the  two 
halves.  With  his  usual  coolness  Adrian  debated  whether 
he  might  be  in  the  observatory  or  the  practical  stage  of 
the  voyage.  For  himself,  as  a  man  and  a  philosopher, 
Adrian  had  no  objection  to  its  being  either;  and  he  had 
only  to  consider  which  was  temporarily  most  threatening 
to  the  ridiculous  System  he  had  to  support.  Richard's 
absence  annoyed  him.  The  youth  was  vivacious,  and  his 
enthusiasm  good  fun;  and  besides,  when  he  left  table, 
Adrian  had  to  sit  alone  with  Hippias  and  the  Eighteenth 
Century,  from  both  of  wdiom  he  had  extract ed  all  the 
amusement  that  could  be  got,  and  he  saw  his  digestion 
menaced  by  the  society  of  two  ruined  stomachs,  who  bored 
him  just  when  he  loved  himself  most.  Poor  Hippias  was 
now  so  reduced  that  he  had  profoundly  to  calculate 
whether  a  particular  dish,  or  an  extra  glass  of  wine,  would 
have  a  bitter  effect  on  him  and  be  felt  through  the  re- 
mainder of  his  years.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  uttering 
his  calculations  half  aloud,  wherein  the  prophetic  doubts 
of  experience,  and  the  succulent  insinuations  of  appetite, 
contended  hotly.  It  was  horrible  to  hear  him,  so  let  us 
pardon  Adrian  for  tempting  him  to  a  decision  in  favour 
of  the  moment. 


TREATMENT   OF  A  DRAGON  129 

"Happy  to  take  wine  with  you,"  Adrian  would  say,  and 
Hippias  would  regard  the  decanter  with  a  pained  forehead, 
and  put  up  the  doctor. 

"Drink,  nephew  Hippy,  and  think  of  the  doctor  to- 
morrow!" the  Eighteenth  Century  cheerily  ruffles  her  cap 
at  him,  and  recommends  her  own  practice. 

"It's  this  literary  work!"  interjects  Hippias,  handling 
his  glass  of  remorse.  "I  don't  know  what  else  it  can  be. 
You  have  no  idea  how  anxious  I  feel.  I  have  frightful 
dreams.    I'm  perpetually  anxious." 

"No  wonder,"  says  Adrian,  who  enjoys  the  childish 
simplicity  to  which  an  absorbed  study  of  his  sensational 
existence  has  brought  poor  Hippias.  "No  wonder.  Ten 
years  of  Fairy  Mythology!  Could  any  one  hope  to  sleep 
in  peace  after  that?  As  to  your  digestion,  no  one  has  a 
digestion  who  is  in  the  doctor's  hands.  They  prescribe 
from  dogmas,  and  don't  count  on  the  system.  They  have 
cut  down  from  two  bottles  to  two  glasses.  It's  absurd. 
You  can't  sleep,  because  your  system  is  crying  out  for 
what  it's  accustomed  to." 

Hippias  sips  his  Madeira  with  a  niggardly  confidence, 
but  assures  Adrian  that  he  really  should  not  like  to 
venture  on  a  bottle  now:  it  would  be  rank  madness  to 
venture  on  a  bottle  now,  he  thinks.  Last  night  only,  after 
partaking,  under  protest,  of  that  rich  French  dish,  or 
was  it  the  duck  ? — Adrian  advised  him  to  throw  the  blame 
on  that  vulgar  bird. — Say  the  duck,  then.  Last  night,  he 
was  no  sooner  stretched  in  bed,  than  he  seemed  to  be  of 
an  enormous  size:  all  his  limbs — his  nose,  his  mouth,  his 
toes — were  elephantine!  An  elephant  was  a  pigmy  to 
him.  And  his  hugeousness  seemed  to  increase  the  instant 
he  shut  his  eyes.  He  turned  on  this  side;  he  turned  on 
that.  He  lay  on  his  back ;  he  tried  putting  his  face  to  the 
pillow ;  and  he  continued  to  swell.  He  wondered  the  room 
could  hold  him — he  thought  he  must  burst  it — and  abso- 
lutely lit  a  candle,  and  went  to  the  looking-glass  to  see 
whether  he  was  bearable. 

By  this  time  Adrian  and  Richard  were  laughing  uncon- 
trollably. He  had,  however,  a  genial  auditor  in  the  Eigh- 
teenth Century,  who  declared  it  to  be  a  new  disease,  not 
known  in  her  day,  and  deserving  investigation.  She  was 
happy  to  compare  sensations  with  him,  but  hers  were  not 


130      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICH  AIM)  FEVER  EL 

of  the  complex  order,  and  a  potion  soon  righted  her.  In 
fact,  her  By8tem  appeared  to  be  a  debatable  ground  for 
aliment  and  medicine,  on  which  the  battle  was  fought, 
and,  when  over,  she  was  none  the  worse,  as  she  joyfully 
told  Hippias.  Never  looked  ploughman  on  prince,  or 
village  belle  mi  Court  Beauty,  with  half  the  envy  poor 
Nineteenth-century  Hippias  expended  in  his  gaze  on  the 
Kitrhteenth.  He  was  too  serious  to  note  much  the  laughter 
of  the  young  men. 

This  "Tragedy  of  a  Cooking-Apparatus,"  as  Adrian  des- 
ignated the  malady  of  Hippias,  was  repeated  regularly 
every  evening.  It  was  natural  for  any  youth  to  escape  as 
quick  as  he  could  from  such  a  table  of  stomachs. 

Adrian  bore  with  his  conduct  considerately,  until  a 
letter  from  the  baronet,  describing  the  house  and  maternal 
System  of  a  Mrs.  Caroline  Grandison,  and  the  rough 
grain  of  hopefulness  in  her  youngest  daughter,  spurred 
him  to  think  of  his  duties,  and  see  what  was  going  on.  lie 
gave  Richard  half-an-hour's  start,  and  then  put  on  his 
hat  to  follow  his  own  keen  scent,  leaving  Hippias  and  the 
Eighteenth  Century  to  piquet. 

In  the  lane  near  Belthorpe  he  met  a  maid  of  the  farm 
not  unknown  to  him,  one  Molly  Davenport  by  name,  a 
buxom  lass,  who,  on  seeing  him,  invoked  her  Good  Gra- 
cious, the  generic  maid's  familiar,  and  was  instructed  by 
reminiscences  vivid,  if  ancient,  to  giggle. 

"Are  you  looking  for  your  young  gentleman  \n  Molly 
presently  asked. 

Adrian  glanced  about  the  lane  like  a  cool  brigand,  to 
see  if  the  coast  was  clear,  and  replied  to  her,  "I  am,  miss. 
I  want  you  to  tell  me  about  him." 

'"Dear!"  said  the  buxom  lass,  "was  you  coming  for  me 
to-night  to  know?" 

Adrian  rebuked  her:  for  her  bad  grammar,  apparently. 

"'Cause  I  can't  stop  out  long  to-night,"  Molly  ex- 
plained, taking  the  rebuke  to  refer  altogether  to  her  bad 
grammar. 

"You  may  go  in  when  you  please,  miss.  Is  that  any 
one  coming?     Come  here  in  the  shade." 

"Now,  get  along!"  said  Miss  Molly. 

Adrian  spoke  with  resolution.  "Listen  to  me,  Molly 
Davenport!"     He  put  a  coin  in  her  hand,  which  had  a 


TREATMENT   OF  A  DRAGON  131 

medical  effect  in  calming  her  to  attention.  "I  want  to 
know  whether  you  have  seen  him  at  all?" 

"Who?  Your  young  gentleman?  I  sh'd  think  I  did. 
I  seen  him  to-night  only.  Ain't  he  growed  handsome. 
He's  al'ays  about  Beltharp  now.  It  ain't  to  fire  no  more 
ricks.  He's  afire  'unself.  Ain't  you  seen  'em  together? 
He's  after  the  missis" 

Adrian  requested  Miss  Davenport  to  be  respectful,  and 
confine  herself  to  particulars.  This  buxom  lass  then  told 
him  that  her  young  missis  and  Adrian's  young  gentleman 
were  a  pretty  couple,  and  met  one  another  every  night. 
The  girl  swore  for  their  innocence. 

"As  for  Miss  Lucy,  she  haven't  a  bit  of  art  in  her,  nor 
have  he." 

"They're  all  nature,  I  suppose,"  said  Adrian.  "How 
is  it  I  don't  see  her  at  church  ?" 

"She's  Catholic,  or  somethink,"  said  Molly.  "Her 
feyther  was,  and  a  leftenant.  She've  a  Cross  in  her  bed- 
room. She  don't  go  to  church.  I  see  you  there  last 
Sunday  a-lookin'  so  solemn,"  and  Molly  stroked  her  hand 
down  her  chin  to  give  it  length. 

Adrian  insisted  on  her  keeping  to  facts.  It  was  dark, 
and  in  the  dark  he  was  indifferent  to  the  striking  con- 
trasts suggested  by  the  lass,  but  he  wanted  to  hear  facts, 
and  he  again  bribed  her  ,to  impart  nothing  but  facts. 
Upon  which  she  told  him  further,  that  her  young  lady 
was  an  innocent  artless  creature  who  had  been  to  school 
upwards  of  three  years  with  the  nuns,  and  had  a  little 
money  of  her  own,  and  was  beautiful  enough  to  be  a  lord's 
lady,  and  had  been  in  love  with  Master  Richard  ever  since 
she  was  a  little  girl.  Molly  had  got  from  a  friend  of  hers 
up  at  the  Abbey,  Mary  Garner,  the  housemaid  who 
cleaned  Master  Richard's  room,  a  bit  of  paper  once  with 
the  young  gentleman's  handwriting,  and  had  given  it  to 
her  Miss  Lucy,  and  Miss  Lucy  had  given  her  a  gold 
sovereign  for  it — just  for  his  handwriting!  Miss  Lucy 
did  not  seem  happy  at  the  farm,  because  of  that  young 
Tom,  who  was  always  leering  at  her,  and  to  be  sure  she 
was  quite  a  lady,  and  could  play,  and  sing,  and  dress  with 
the  best. 

"She  looks  like  angels  in  her  nightgown !"  Molly  wound 
up. 


132       THE  ORDEAL  OF   RICHARD  FKVEREL 

The  next  moment  she  ran  up  elose,  and  speaking  for  the 
first  time  as  if  there  were  a  distinction  of  position  hetween 
them,  petitioned:  ".Mr.  Harley !  you  won't  go  for  doin' 
any  harm  to  'em  'cause  of  what  I  said,  will  you  now  I 
Do  say  you  won't  now,  Mr.  Harley!  She  is  good,  though 
she's  a  Catholic.  She  was  kind  to  me  when  I  was  ill.  and 
I  wouldn't  have  her  crossed — I'd  rather  be  showed  up  my- 
self, I  would!" 

The  wise  youth  gave  no  positive  promise  to  Molly,  and 
she  had  to  read  his  consent  in  a  relaxation  of  his  austerity. 
The  noise  of  a  lumbering  foot  plodding  down  the  lane 
caused  her  to  be  abruptly  dismissed.  Molly  took  to  flight, 
the  lumbering  foot  accelerated  its  pace,  and  the  pastoral 
appeal  to  her  flying  skirts  was  heard — "Moll!  yau  theyre! 
It  be  I — Bantam!"  Rut  the  sprightly  Silvia  would  not 
stop  to  his  wooing,  and  Adrian  turned  away  laughing  at 
these  Arcadians. 

Adrian  was  a  lazy  dragon.  All  he  did  for  the  present 
was  to  hint  and  tease.  "It's  the  Inevitable!"  he  said,  and 
asked  himself  why  he  should  seek  to  arrest  it.  He  had  no 
faith  in  the  System.  Heavy  Benson  had.  Benson  of  the 
slow  thick-lidded  antediluvian  eye  and  loose-crumpled 
skin;  Benson,  the  Saurian,  the  woman-hater;  Benson  was 
wide  awake.  A  sort  of  rivalry  existed  between  the  wise 
youth  and  heavy  Benson.  The  fidelity  of  the  latter  de- 
pendant had  moved  the  baronet  to  commit  to  him  a  portion 
of  the  management  of  the  Raynham  estate,  and  this 
Adrian  did  not  like.  No  one  who  aspires  to  the  hon- 
ourable office  of  leading  another  by  the  nose  can  tolerate 
a  party  in  his  ambition.  Renson's  surly  instinct  told  him 
he  was  in  the  wise  youth's  way,  and  he  resolved  to  give 
his  master  a  striking  proof  of  his  superior  faithfulness. 
For  some  weeks  the  Saurian  eye  had  been  on  the  two 
secret  creatures.  Heavy  Renson  saw  letters  come  and 
go  in  the  day,  and  now  the  young  gentleman  was  off  and 
out  every  night,  and  seemed  to  be  on  wings.  Renson 
knew  whither  he  went,  and  the  object  he  went  for.  It 
was  a  woman — that  was  enough.  The  Saurian  eye  had 
actually  seen  the  sinful  thing  lure  the  hope  of  Raynham 
into  the  shades.  He  composed  several  epistles  of  warning 
to  the  baronet  of  the  work  that  was  going  on ;  but  before 
sending  one  he  wished  to  record  a  little  of  their  guilty 


TREATMENT   OF  A  DRAGON  133 

conversation;  and  for  this  purpose  the  faithful  fellow 
trotted  over  the  dews  to  eavesdrop,  and  thereby  aroused 
the  good  fairy,  in  the  person  of  Tom  Bakewell,  the  sole 
confidant  of  Richard's  state. 

Tom  said  to  his  young  master,  "Do  you  know  what, 
sir?    You  be  watched!" 

Richard,  in  a  fury,  bade  him  name  the  wretch,  and  Tom 
hung  his  arms,  and  aped  the  respectable  protrusion  of  the 
hut  If  t  s    hpfifi 

"It's  he,  is' it?"  cried  Richard.  "He  shall  rue  it,  Tom. 
If  I  find  him  near  me  when  we're  together  he  shall  never 
forget  it." 

"Don't  hit  too  hard,  sir,"  Tom  suggested.  "You  hit 
mortal  hard  when  you're  in  earnest,  you  know." 

Richard  averred  he  would  forgive  anything  but  that, 
and  told  Tom  to  be  within  hail  to-morrow  night — he 
knew  where.  By  the  hour  of  the  appointment  it  was  out 
of  the  lover's  mind. 

Lady  Blandish  dined  that  evening  at  Raynham,  by 
Adrian's  pointed  invitation.  According  to  custom,  Rich- 
ard started  up  and  off,  with  few  excuses.  The  lady  ex- 
hibited no  surprise.  She  and  Adrian  likewise  strolled 
forth  to  enjoy  the  air  of  the  Summer  night.  They  had 
no  intention  of  spying.  Still  they  may  have  thought,  by 
meeting  Richard  and  his  inamorata,  there  was  a  chance 
of  laying  a  foundation  of  ridicule  to  sap  the  passion. 
They  may  have  thought  so — they  were  on  no  spoken  un- 
derstanding. 

"I  have  seen  the  little  girl,"  said  Lady  Blandish.  "She 
is  pretty — she  would  be  telling  if  she  were  well  set  up. 
She  speaks  well.  How  absurd  it  is  of  that  class  to  educate 
their  women  above  their  station !  The  child  is  really  too 
good  for  a  farmer.  I  noticed  her  before  I  knew  of  this; 
she  has  enviable  hair.  I  suppose  she  doesn't  paint  her 
eyelids.  Just  the  sort  of  person  to  take  a  young  man.  I 
thought  there  was  something  wrong.  I  received,  the  day 
before  yesterday,  an  impassioned  poem  evidently  not  in- 
tended for  me.  My  hair  was  gold.  My  meeting  him  was 
foretold.  My  eyes  were  homes  of  light  fringed  with 
night.    I  sent  it  back,  correcting  the  colours." 

"Which  was  death  to  the  rhymes,"  said  Adrian.  "I  saw 
her  this  morning.    The  boy  hasn't  bad  taste.    As  you  say, 


134      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

she  is  too  good  for  a  farmer.  Such  a  spark  would  explode 
any  System.  She  slightly  affected  mine.  The  Huron  is 
stark  mad  about  her." 

"But  we  must  positively  write  and  tell  his  father,"  said 
Lady  Blandish. 

The  wise  youth  did  not  see  why  they  should  exaggerate 
a  trine.  The  lady  said  she  would  have  an  interview  with 
Richard,  and  then  write,  as  it  was  her  duty  to  do.  Adrian 
shrugged,  and  was  for  going  into  the  scientific  explanation 
of  Richard's  conduct,  in  which  the  lady  had  to  discourage 
him. 

"Poor  boy!"  she  sighed.  "I  am  really  sorry  for  him.  I 
hope  he  will  not  feel  it  too  strongly.  They  feel  strongly, 
father  and  son." 

"And  select  wisely,"  Adrian  added. 

"That's  another  thing,"  said  Lady  Blandish. 

Their  talk  was  then  of  the  dulness  of  neighbouring 
county  people,  about  whom,  it  seemed,  there  was  little  or 
no  scandal  afloat :  of  the  lady's  loss  of  the  season  in  town, 
which  she  professed  not  to  regret,  though  she  complained 
of  her  general  weariness:  of  whether  Mr.  Morton  of  Poer 
Hall  would  propose  to  Mrs.  Doria,  and  of  the  probable 
despair  of  the  hapless  curate  of  Lobourne;  and  other 
gossip,  partly  in  French. 

They  rounded  the  lake,  and  got  upon  the  road  through 
the  park  to  Lobourne.  The  moon  had  risen.  The  atmos- 
phere was  warm  and  pleasant. 

"Quite  a  lover's  night,"  said  Lady  Blandish. 

"And  I,  who  have  none  to  love — pity  me!"  The  wise 
youth  attempted  a  sigh. 

"And  never  will  have,"  said  Lady  Blandish,  curtly. 
"You  buy  your  loves." 

Adrian  protested.  However,  he  did  not  plead  verbally 
against  the  impeachment,  though  the  lady's  decisive  in- 
sight astonished  him.  He  began  to  respect  her,  relishing 
her  exquisite  contempt,  and  he  reflected  that  widows  could 
be  terrible  creatures. 

He  had  hoped  to  be  a  little  sentimental  with  Lady 
Blandish,  knowing  her  romantic.  This  mixture  of  the 
harshest  common  sense  and  an  air  of  "/  know  you  men," 
with  romance  and  reflncd  temperament,  subdued  the  wise 
youth  more  than  a  positive  accusation  supported  by  wit- 
nesses would  have  done.    He  looked  at  the  lady.    Her  face 


TREATMENT   OF  A  DRAGON  135 

was  raised  to  the  moon.  She  knew  nothing — she  had 
simply  spoken  from  the  fulness  of  her  human  knowledge, 
and  had  forgotten  her  words.  Perhaps,  after  all,  her 
admiration,  or  whatever  feeling  it  was,  for  the  baronet, 
was  sincere,  and  really  the  longing  for  a  virtuous  man. 
Perhaps  she  had  tried  the  opposite  set  pretty  much. 
Adrian  shrugged.  Whenever  the  wise  youth  encountered 
a  mental  difficulty  he  instinctively  lifted  his  shoulders  to 
equal  altitudes,  to  show  that  he  had  no  doubt  there  was  a 
balance  in  the  case — plenty  to  be  said  on  both  sides,  which 
was  the  same  to  him  as  a  definite  solution. 

At  their  tryst  in  the  wood,  abutting  on  Raynham  Park, 
wrapped  in  themselves,  piped  to  by  tireless  Love,  Richard 
and  Lucy  sat,  toying  with  eternal  moments.  How  they 
seem  as  if  they  would  never  end !  What  mere  sparks  they 
are  when  they  have  died  out !  And  how  in  the  distance 
of  time  they  revive,  and  extend,  and  glow,  and  make  us 
think  them  full  the  half,  and  the  best  of  the  fire,  of  our 
lives ! 

With  the  onward  flow  of  intimacy,  the  two  happy  lovers 
ceased  to  be  so  shy  of  common  themes,  and  their  speech 
did  not  reject  all  as  dross  that  was  not  pure  gold  of  emo- 
tion. 

Lucy  was  very  inquisitive  about  everything  and  every- 
body at  Raynham.  Whoever  had  been  about  Richard  since 
his  birth,  she  must  know  the  history  of,  and  he  for  a  kiss 
will  do  her  bidding. 

Thus  goes  the  tender  duet: 

"You  should  know  my  cousin  Austin,  Lucy. — Darling  I 
Beloved !" 

"My  own!  Richard!" 

"You  should  know  my  cousin  Austin.  You  shall  know 
him.  He  would  take  to  you  best  of  them  all,  and  you  to 
him.  He  is  in  the  tropics  now,  looking  out  a  place — it's 
a  secret — for  poor  English  working-men  to  emigrate  to 
and  found  a  colony  in  that  part  of  the  world: — my  white 
angel !" 

"Dear  love!" 

"He  is  such  a  noble  fellow!  Nobody  here  understands 
him  but  me.  Isn't  it  strange?  Since  I  met  you  I  love 
him  better!  That's  because  I  love  all  that's  good  and 
noble  better  now — Beautiful!     I  love — I  love  you!" 

"My  Richard!" 


136       THE  OKDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"What   do  you  think   I've  determined,   Luey?      If  my 

father hut  no!  my  father  does  love  me. —  No!  lie  will 

not;  and  we  will  he  happy  together  here.  And  I  will  win 
my  way  with  you.  And  whatever  I  win  will  be  yours; 
for  it  will  be  owing  to  you.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  no  strength 
but  yours — none!  and  you  make  me — O  Lucy!" 

II is  voice  ebbs.     Presently  Lucy  murmurs — ■ 

"Your  father,  Richard." 

"Yes,  my  father?" 

"Dearest  Richard!    I  feel  so  afraid  of  him." 

"He  loves  me,  and  will  love  you,  Lucy." 

"But  I  am  so  poor  and  humble,  Richard." 

"No  one  I  have  ever  seen  is  like  you,  Lucy." 

"You  think  so,  because  you" 

"What  ?" 

"Love  me,"  comes  the  blushing  whisper,  and  the  duet 
gives  place  to  dumb  variations,  performed  equally  in  con- 
cert. 

It  is  resumed. 

"You  are  fond  of  the  knights,  Lucy.  Austin  is  as  brave 
as  any  of  them. — My  own  bride!  Oh,  how  I  adore  you! 
When  you  are  gone,  I  could  fall  upon  the  grass  you  tread 
upon,  and  kiss  it.  My  breast  feels  empty  of  my  heart — 
Luey!  if  we  lived  in  those  days,  I  should  have  been  a 
knight,  and  have  won  honour  and  glory  for  you.  Oh! 
one  can  do  nothing  now.  My  lady-love!  My  lady-love! — 
A  tear? — Lucy?" 

"Dearest!     Ah,  Richard!     I  am  not  a  lady." 

"Who  dares  say  that?     Not  a  lady — the  angel  I  love!" 

"Think,  Richard,  who  I  am." 

"My  beautiful !  I  think  that  God  made  you,  and  has 
given  you  to  me." 

Her  eyes  fill  with  tears,  and,  as  she  lifts  them  heaven- 
ward to  thank  her  God,  the  light  of  heaven  strikes  en 
them,  and  she  is  so  radiant  in  her  pure  beauty  that  the 
limbs  of  the  young  man  tremble. 

"Lucy!     O  heavenly  spirit!     Lucy!" 

Tenderly  her  lips  part — "I  do  not  weep  for  sorrow." 

The  big  bright  drops  lighten,  and  roll  down,  imaged  in 
his  soul. 

They  lean  together — shadows  of  ineffable  tenderness 
playing  on  their  thrilled  cheeks  and  brows. 


TREATMENT   OF  A  DRAGON  137 

He  lifts  her  hand,  and  presses  his  mouth  to  it.  She  has 
seen  little  of  mankind,  but  her  soul  tells  her  this  one  is 
different  from  others,  and  at  the  thought,  in  her  great 
joy,  tears  must  come  fast,  or  her  heart  will  break — tears 
of  boundless  thanksgiving.  And  he,  gazing  on  those  soft, 
ray-illumined,  dark-edged  eyes,  and  the  grace  of  her  loose 
falling  tresses,  feels  a  scarce-sufferable  holy  fire  streaming 
through  his  members. 

It  is  long  ere  they  speak  in  open  tones. 

"0  happy  day  when  we  met!" 

What  says  the  voice  of  one,  the  soul  of  the  other  echoes. 

"O  glorious  heaven  looking  down  on  us !" 

Their  souls  are  joined,  are  made  one  for  evermore  be- 
neath that  bending  benediction. 

"O  eternity  of  bliss!" 

Then  the  diviner  mood  passes,  and  they  drop  to  earth. 

"Lucy!  come  with  me  to-night,  and  look  at  the  place 
where  you  are  some  day  to  live.  Come,  and  I  will  row 
you  on  the  lake.  You  remember  what  you  said  in  your 
letter  that  you  dreamt? — that  we  were  floating  over  the 
shadow  of  the  Abbey  to  the  nuns  at  work  by  torchlight 
felling  the  cypress,  and  they  handed  us  each  a  sprig.  Why, 
darling,  it  was  the  best  omen  in  the  world,  their  felling 
the  old  trees.  And  you  write  such  lovely  letters.  So  pure 
and  sweet  they  are.  I  love  the  nuns  for  having  taught 
you." 

"Ah,  Richard!  See!  we  forget!  Ah!"  she  lifts  up  her 
face  pleadingly,  as  to  plead  against  herself,  "even  if  your 
father  forgives  my  birth,  he  will  not  my  religion.  And, 
dearest,  though  I  would  die  for  you  I  cannot  change  it.  It 
would  seem  that  I  was  denying  God;  and — oh!  it  would 
make  me  ashamed  of  my  love." 

"Fear  nothing!"  He  winds  her  about  with  his  arm. 
"Come !  He  will  love  us  both,  and  love  you  the  more  for 
being  faithful  to  your  father's  creed.  You  don't  know 
him,  Lucy.  He  seems  harsh  and  stern — he  is  full  of 
kindness  and  love.  He  isn't  at  all  a  bigot.  And  besides, 
when  he  hears  what  the  nuns  have  done  for  you,  won't 
he  thank  them,  as  I  do  ?  And — oh !  I  must  speak  to  him 
soon,  and  you  must  be  prepared  to  see  him  soon,  for  I 
cannot  bear  your  remaining  at  Belthorpe,  like  a  jewel  in 
a  sty.    Mind !     I'm  not  saying  a  word  against  your  uncle. 


138      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

I  declare  I  love  everybody  and  everything  that  sees  you 
and  touches  you.  Stay!  it  is  a  wonder  how  you  could 
have  grown  there.  But  you  were  not  born  there,  and 
your  father  had  good  blood.  Dcsbo rough! — there  was  a 
Colonel  Desborough — never  mind!     Come!" 

She  dreads  to.     She  begs  not  to.     She  is  drawn  away. 

The  woods  are  silent,  and   then — 

''What  think  you  of  that  for  a  pretty  pastoral?"  says  a 
very  ditferent  voice. 

Adrian  reclined  against  a  pine  overlooking  the  fern- 
covert.  Lady  Blandish  was  recumbent  upon  the  brown 
pine-droppings,  gazing  through  a  vista  of  the  lower  green- 
wood which  opened  out  upon  the  moon-lighted  valley,  her 
hands  clasped  round  one  knee,  her  features  almost  stern 
in  their  set  hard  expression. 

They  had  heard,  by  involuntarily  overhearing  about  as 
much  as  may  be  heard  in  such  positions,  a  luminous  word 
or  two. 

The  lady  did  not  answer.  A  movement  among  the  ferns 
attracted  Adrian,  and  he  stepped  down  the  decline  across 
the  pine-roots  to  behold  heavy  Benson  below,  shaking  fern- 
seed  and  spidery  substances  off  his  crumpled  skin. 

"Is  that  you,  Mr.  Hadrian  ?"  called  Benson,  starting, 
as  he  puffed,  and  exercised  his  handkerchief. 

"Is  it  you,  Benson,  who  have  had  the  audacity  to  spy 
upon  these  Mysteries?"  Adrian  called  back,  and  coming 
close  to  him,  added,  "You  look  as  if  you  had  just  been 
well  thrashed." 

"Isn't  it  dreadful,  sir?"  snuffled  Benson.  "And  his 
father  in  ignorance,  Mr.  Hadrian  !" 

"He  shall  know,  Benson !  He  shall  know  how  you  have 
endangered  your  valuable  skin  in  his  service.  If  Mr.  Rich- 
ard had  found  you  there  just  now  I  wouldn't  answer  for 
the  consequences." 

"Ha!"  Benson  spitefully  retorted.  "This  won't  go  on, 
Mr.  Hadrian.  It  shan't,  sir.  It  will  be  put  a  stop  to 
to-morrow,  sir.  I  call  it  corruption  of  a  young  gentleman 
like  him,  and  harlotry,  sir,  I  call  it.  I'd  have  every  jade 
flogged  that  made  a  young  innocent  gentleman  go  on 
like  that,  sir." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  stop  it  yourself,  Benson?  Ah,  I 
see!  you  waited — what?     Tbis  is  not  the  first  time  you 


TREATMENT   OF  A  DRAGON  139 

have  been  attendant  on  Apollo  and  Miss  Dryope?  You 
have  written  to  headquarters?" 

'T  did  my  duty,  Mr.  Hadrian." 

The  wise  youth  returned  to  Lady  Blandish,  and  in- 
formed her  of  Benson's  zeal.  The  lady's  eyes  flashed. 
"I  hope  Richard  will  treat  him  as  he  deserves,"  she  said. 

"Shall  we  home?"  Adrian  inquired. 

"Do  me  a  favour,"  the  lady  replied.  "Get  my  carriage 
sent  round  to  meet  me  at  the  park-gates." 

"Won't  you?"— 

"I  want  to  be  alone." 

Adrian  bowed  and  left  her.  She  was  still  sitting  with 
her  hands  clasped  round  one  knee,  gazing  towards  the  dim 
ray-strewn  valley. 

"An  odd  creature!"  muttered  the  wise  youth.  "She's 
as  odd  as  any  of  them.  She  ought  to  be  a  Feverel.  I 
suppose  she's  graduating  for  it.  Hang  that  confounded 
old  ass  of  a  Benson !  He  has  had  the  impudence  to  steal 
a  march  on  me!" 

The  shadow  of  the  cypress  was  lessening  on  the  lake. 
The  moon  was  climbing  high.  As  Richard  rowed  the  boat, 
Lucy  sang  to  him  softly.  She  sang  first  a  fresh  little 
French  song,  reminding  him  of  a  day  when  she  had  been 
asked  to  sing  to  him  before,  and  he  did  not  care  to  hear. 
"Did  I  live?"  he  thinks.  Then  she  sang  to  him  a  bit  of 
one  of  those  majestic  old  Gregorian  chants,  that,  wherever 
you  may  hear  them,  seem  to  build  up  cathedral  walls  about 
you.  The  young  man  dropped  the  sculls.  The  strange 
solemn  notes  gave  a  religious  tone  to  his  love,  and  wafted 
him  into  the  knightly  ages  and  the  reverential  heart  of 
chivalry. 

Hanging  between  two  heavens  on  the  lake:  floating  to 
her  voice:  the  moon  stepping  over  and  through  white 
shoals  of  soft  high  clouds  above  and  below:  floating  to  her 
voice — no  other  breath  abroad!  His  soul  went  out  of  his 
body  as  he  listened. 

They  must  part.    He  rows  her  gently  shoreward. 

"I  never  was  so  happy  as  to-night,"  she  murmurs. 

"Look,  my  Lucy.  The  lights  of  the  old  place  are  on 
ihe  lake.    Look  where  you  are  to  live." 

'Which  is  your  room,  Richard?" 

He  points  it  out  to  her. 


140      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"O  Richard  I  thai  I  were  one  of  the  women  who  wait  on 
you!  I  should  ask  nothing  more.  How  happy  she  must 
be!" 

"My  darling  angel-love.  You  shall  be  happy;  but  all 
shall  wait  on  you,  and  I  foremost,  Lucy." 

"Dearest!   may  1  hope  for  a  letter?" 

"By  eleven  to-morrow.     And  I?" 

"Oh !  you  will  have  mine,  Richard." 

"Tom  shall  wait  for  it.  A  long  one,  mind!  Did  you 
like  my  last  song?" 

She  puts  her  hand  quietly  against  her  bosom,  and  he 
knows  where  it  rests.    O  lovel    O  heaven! 

They  are  aroused  by  the  harsh  grating  of  the  bow  of 
the  boat  against  the  shingle.  He  jumps  out,  and  lifts  her 
ashore. 

"See!"  she  says,  as  the  blush  of  his  embrace  subsides — 
"See!"  and  prettily  she  mimics  awe  and  feels  it  a  little, 
"the  cypress  does  point  towards  us.    O  Richard!  it  does!" 

And  he,  looking  at  her  rather  than  at  the  cypress,  de- 
lighting in  her  arch   grave  ways — 

"Why,  there's  hardly  any  shadow  at  all,  Lucy.  She 
mustn't  dream,  my  darling!  or  dream  only  of  me." 

"Dearest!  but  I  do." 

"To-morrow,  Lucy!  The  letter  in  the  morning,  and 
you  at  night.     O  happy  to-morrow!" 

"You  will  be  sure  to  be  there,  Richard?" 

"If  I  am  not  dead,  Lucy." 

"O  Richard!  pray,  pray  do  not  speak  of  that.  I  shall 
not  survive  you." 

"Let  us  pray,  Lucy,  to  die  together,  when  we  are  to  die. 
Death  or  life,  with  you!  Who  is  it  yonder?  I  see  some 
one — is  it  Tom?     It's  Adrian!" 

"Is  it  Mr.  Harley  ?"    The  fair  girl  shivered. 

"How  dares  he  come  here!"  cried  Richard. 

The  figure  of  Adrian,  instead  of  advancing,  discreetly 
circled  the  lake.  They  were  stealing  away  when  he  called. 
His  call  was  repeated.  Lucy  entreated  Richard  to  go  to 
him;  but  the  young  man  preferred  to  summon  his  attend- 
ant, Tom,  from  within  hail,  and  send  him  to  know  what 
was  wanted. 

"Will  he  have  seen  me?  Will  he  have  known  me?" 
whispered  Lucy,  tremulously. 


TREATMENT  OF  A  DRAGON  141 

"And  if  he  does,  love?"  said  Richard. 

"Oh !  if  he  does,  dearest — I  don't  know,  but  I  feel  such 
a  presentiment.  You  have  not  spoken  of  him  to-night, 
Richard.    Is  he  good  ?" 

"Good?"  Richard  clutched  her  hand  for  the  innocent 
maiden  phrase.  "He's  very  fond  of  eating;  that's  all  I 
know  of  Adrian." 

Her  hand  was  at  his  lips  when  Tom  returned. 

"Well,  Tom?" 

"Mr.  Adrian  wishes  particular  to  speak  to  you,  sir," 
said  Tom. 

"Do  go  to  him,  dearest !     Do  go !"  Lucy  begs  him. 

"Oh,  how  I  hate  Adrian!"  The  young  man  grinds  his 
teeth. 

"Do  go!"  Lucy  urges  him.  "Tom— good  Tom — will 
see  me  home.     To-morrow,  dear  love!     To-morrow!" 

"You  wish  to  part  from  me?" 

"Oh,  unkind !  but  you  must  not  come  with  me  now.  It 
mav  be  news  of  importance,  dearest.     Think,  Richard !" 

"Tom!  go  back!" 

At  the  imperious  command  the  well-drilled  Tom 
strides  off  a  dozen  paces,  and  sees  nothing.  Then  the 
precious  charge  is  confided  to  him.  A  heart  is  cut  in 
twain. 

Richard  made  his  way  to  Adrian.  'What  is  it  you  want 
with  me,  Adrian?" 

"Are  we  seconds,  or  principals,  O  fiery  one?"  was 
Adrian's  answer.  "I  want  nothing  with  you,  except  to 
know  whether  you  have  seen  Benson." 

"Where  should  I  see  Benson  ?  What  do  I  know  of  Ben- 
son's doings?" 

"Of  course  not — such  a  secret  old  fist  as  he  is !  I  want 
some  one  to  tell  him  to  order  Lady  Blandish's  carriage  to 
be  sent  round  to  the  park-gates.  I  thought  he  might  be 
round  your  way  over  there — I  came  upon  him  accidentally 
just  now  in  Abbey-wood.     What's  the  matter,  boy?" 

"You  saw  him  there?" 

"Hunting  Diana,  I  suppose.  He  thinks  she's  not  so 
chaste  as  they  say,"  continued  Adrian.  "Are  you  going 
to  knock  down  that  tree?" 

Richard  had  turned  to  the  cypress,  and  was  tugging  at 
the  tough  wood.    He  left  it  and  went  to  an  ash. 


142      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

''You'll  spoil  that  weeper,"  Adrian  cried.  "Down  she 
comes!  But  good-night,  Ricky.  If  you  see  Benson  mind 
you  tell  him." 

Doomed  Benson  following  his  burly  shadow  hove  in 
sight  on  the  white  road  while  Adrian  spoke.  The  wise 
youth  chuckled  and  strolled  round  the  lake,  glancing  over 
his  shoulder  every  now  and   than. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  heard  a  bellow  for  help — the 
roar  of  a-  dragon  in  his.  throes.  Adrian  placidly  sat  down 
on  the  grass,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  water.  There,  as 
the-  roar  was  being  repeated  amid  horrid  resounding 
echoes,  the  wise  youth  mused  in  this  wise — 

"  'The  Fates  are  Jews  with  us  when  they  delay  a  pun- 
ishment,' says  Tfte  Pilgrim's  Scrip,  or  words  to  that  effect. 
The  heavens  evidently  love  Benson,  seeing  that  he  gets 
his  punishment  on  the  spot.  Master  Ricky  is  a  peppery 
young  man.  Ho  gets  it  from  the  apt  Gruffudh.  I  rather 
believe  in  race.  What  a  noise  that  old  ruffian  makes! 
He'll  require  poulticing  with  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip.  We 
shall  have  a  message  to-morrow,  and  a  hubbub,  and  per- 
haps all  go  to  town,  which  won't  be  bad  for  one  who's 
been  a  prey  to  all  the  desires  born  of  dulness.  Benson 
howls:  there's  life  in  the  old  dog  yet!  He  bays  the  moon. 
Look  at  her.  She  doesn't  care.  It's  the  same  to  her 
whether  we  coo  like  turtle-doves  or  roar  like  twenty  lions. 
How  complacent  she  looks!  And  yet  she  has  just  as  much 
sympathy  for  Benson  as  for  Cupid.  She  would  smile  on 
if  both  were  being  birched.  Was  that  a  raven  or  Benson  ? 
He  howls  no  more.  It  sounds  guttural:  frog-like — some- 
thing between  the  brek-kek-kek  and  the  hoarse  raven's 
croak.  The  fellow'll  be  killing  him.  It's  time  to  go  to 
the  rescue.  A  deliverer  gets  more  honour  by  coming  in 
at  the  last  gasp  than  if  he  forestalled  catastrophe. — Ho, 
there,  what's  the  matter?" 

So  saying,  the  wise  youth  rose,  and  leisurely  trotted  to 
the  scene  of  battle,  where  stood  St.  George  puffing  over 
the  prostrate  Dragon. 

"Holloa,  Ricky!  is  it  you?"  said  Adrian.  "What's 
this?     Whom  have  we  here? — Benson,  as  I  live!" 

•Make  this  beast  get  up,"  Richard  returned,  breathing 
hard,  and  shaking  his  great  ash-branch. 

"He  seems  incapable,  my  dear  boy.     What  have  you 


TREATMENT  OF  A  DRAGON  143 

been  up  to? — Benson!  Benson! — I  say,  Ricky,  this  looks 
bad." 

"He's  shamming!"  Richard  clamoured  like  a  savage. 
"Spy  upon  me,  will  he?  I  tell  you,  he's  shamming.  He 
hasn't  had  half  enough.  Nothing's  too  bad  for  a  spy. 
Let  him  get  up !" 

"Insatiate  youth!  do  throw  away  that  enormous 
weapon." 

"He  has  written  to  my  father,"  Richard  shouted.  "The 
miserable  spy !     Let  him  get  up !" 

"Ooogh!  I  won't!"  huskily  groaned  Benson.  "Mr. 
Hadrian,  you're  a  witness  he's — my  back!" Cav- 
ernous noises  took  up  the  tale  of  his  maltreatment. 

"I  daresay  you  love  your  back  better  than  any  part  of 
your  body  now,"  Adrian  muttered.  "Come,  Benson!  be  a 
man.  Mr.  Richard  has  thrown  away  the  stick.  Come,  and 
get  off  home,  and  let's  see  the  extent  of  the  damage." 

"Ooogh!  he's  a  devil!  Mr.  Hadrian,  sir,  he's  a  devil!" 
groaned  Benson,  turning  half  over  in  the  road  to  ease  his 
aches. 

Adrian  caught  hold  of  Benson's  collar  and  lifted  him 
to  a  sitting  posture.  He  then  had  a  glimpse  of  what  his 
hopeful  pupil's  hand  could  do  in  wrath.  The  wretched 
butler's  coat  was  slit  and  welted;  his  hat  knocked  in;  his 
flabby  spirit  so  broken  that  he  started  and  trembled  if  his 
pitiless  executioner  stirred  a  foot.  Richard  stood  over 
him,  grasping  his  great  stick;  no  dawn  of  mercy  for 
Benson  in  any  corner  of  his  features. 

Benson  screwed  his  neck  round  to  look  up  at  him,  and 
immediately  gasped,  "I  won't  get  up!  I  won't!  He's 
ready  to  murder  me  again! — Mr.  Hadrian!  if  you  stand 
by  and  see  it,  you're  liable  to  the  law,  sir — I  won't  get  up 
while  he's  near."  No  persuasion  could  induce  Benson  to 
try  his  legs  while  his  executioner  stood  by. 

Adrian  took  Richard  aside:  "You've  almost  killed  the 
poor  devil,  Ricky.  You  must  be  satisfied  with  that.  Look 
at  his  face." 

"The  coward  bobbed  while  I  struck,"  said  Richard.  "I 
marked  his  back.  He  ducked.  I  told  him  he  was  getting 
it  worse." 

At  so  civilized  piece  of  savagery,  Adrian  opened  his 
mouth  wide. 


144       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"Did  you  really?  I  admire  that.  You  told  him  he  wa9 
getting  it  worse?" 

Adrian  opened  his  mouth  again  to  shake  another  roll 
of  laughter  <>ut. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "Excalibur  has  done  his  work.  Pitch 
him  into  the  lake.  And  see — here  comes  the  Blandish. 
You  can't  bo  at  it  again  before  a  woman.  Go  and  meet 
her,  and  tell  her  the  noise  was  an  ox  being  slaughtered. 
Or  say  Argus." 

With  a  whirr  that  made  all  Benson's  bruises  moan  and 
quiver,  the  great  ash-branch  shot  aloft,  and  Richard 
swung  off  *o  intercept  Lady  Blandish. 

Adrian  got  Benson  on  his  feet.  The  heavy  butler  was 
disposed  to  summon  all  the  commiseration  he  could  feel 
for  his  bruised  flesh.  Every  half -step  he  attempted  was 
like  a  dislocation.  His  groans  and  grunts  were  fright- 
ful. 

"How  much  did  that  hat  cost,  Benson?"  said  Adrian, 
as  he  put  it  on  his  head. 

"A  five-and-twenty  shilling  beaver,  Mr.  Hadrian!" 
Benson  caressed  its  injuries. 

"The  cheapest  policy  of  insurance  I  remember  to  have 
heard  of!"  said  Adrian. 

Benson  staggered,  moaning  at  intervals  to  his  cruel 
comforter — 

"He's  a  devil,  Mr.  Hadrian !  He's  a  devil,  sir,  I  do 
believe,  sir.  Ooogh !  he's  a  devil ! — I  can't  move,  Mr. 
Hadrian.  I  must  be  fetched.  And  Dr.  Clifford  must  be 
sent  for,  sir.  I  shall  never  be  fit  for  work  again.  I 
haven't  a  sound  bone  in  my  body,  Mr.  Hadrian." 

"You  see,  Benson,  this  comes  of  your  declaring  war 
upon  Venus.  I  hope  the  maids  will  nurse  you  properly. 
Let  me  see:  you  are  friends  with  the  housekeeper,  aren't 
you  ?     All  depends  upon  that." 

"I'm  only  a  faithful  servant,  Mr.  Hadrian,"  the  miser- 
able butler  snarled. 

"Then  you've  got  no  friend  but  your  bed.  Get  to  it  as 
quick  as  possible,  Benson." 

"I  can't  move."  Benson  made  a  resolute  halt.  "I  must 
be  fetched,"  he  whinnied.  "It's  a  shame  to  ask  me  to 
move,  Mr.  Hadrian." 

"You    will    admit   that   you    are   heavy,    Benson,"    said 


RICHARD  HEARS  A   SERMON  145 

Adrian,  "so  I  can't  carry  you.  However,  I  see  Mr.  Rich- 
ard is  very  kindly  returning  to  help  me." 

At  these  words  heavy  Benson  instantly  found  his  legs, 
and  shambled  on. 

Lady  Blandish  met  Richard  in  dismay. 

"I  have  been  horribly  frightened,"  she  said.  "Tell  me, 
what  was  the  meaning  of  those  cries  I  heard?" 

"Only  some  one  doing  justice  on  a  spy,"  said  Richard, 
and  the  lady  smiled,  and  looked  on  him  fondly,  and  put 
her  hand  through  his  hair. 

"Was  that  all  ?  I  should  have  done  it  myself  if  I  had 
been  a  man.     Kiss  me." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

RICHARD   IS    SUMMONED   TO   TOWN   TO   HEAR 
A   SERMON 

By  twelve  o'clock  at  noon  next  day  the  inhabitants  of 
Raynham  Abbey  knew  that  Berry,  the  baronet's  man,  had 
arrived  post-haste  from  town,  with  orders  to  conduct  Mr. 
Richard  thither,  and  that  Mr.  Richard  had  refused  to  go, 
had  sworn  he  would  not,  defied  his  father,  and  despatched 
Berry  to  the  Shades.  Berry  was  all  that  Benson  was  not. 
Whereas  Benson  hated  woman,  Berry  admired  her  warmly. 
Second  to  his  own  stately  person,  woman  occupied  his 
reflections,  and  commanded  his  homage.  Berry  was  of 
majestic  port,  and  used  dictionary  words.  Among  the 
maids  of  Raynham  his  conscious  calves  produced  all  the 
discord  and  the  frenzy  those  adornments  seem  destined  to 
create  in  tender  bosoms.  He  had,  moreover,  the  reputa- 
tion of  having  suffered  for  the  sex;  which  assisted  his 
object  in  inducing  the  sex  to  suffer  for  him.  What  with 
his  calves,  and  his  dictionary  words,  and  the  attractive 
halo  of  the  mysterious  vindictiveness  of  Venus  surround- 
ing him,  this  Adonis  of  the  lower  household  was  a  mighty 
man  below,  and  he  moved  as  one. 

On  hearing  the  tumult  that  followed  Berry's  arrival, 
Adrian  sent  for  him,  and  was  informed  of  the  nature  of 
his  mission,  and  its  result. 


146       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"You  should  come  to  mo  first,"  said  Adrian.  "I  should 
have  imagined  you  were  shrewd  enough  for  that,  Berry?" 

"Pardon  mo,  Mr.  Adrian,"  Berry  doubled  his  elbow  to 
explain.  "Pardon  me,  sir.  Acting  recipient  of  special 
injunctions  I  was  not  a  free  agont." 

"Go  to  Mr.  Richard  again.  Berry.  There  will  be  a  little 
confusion  if  he  holds  back.  Perhaps  you  had  better  throw 
out  a  hint  or  so  of  apoplexy.  A  slight  hint  will  do.  And 
here — Berry !  when  you  return  to  town,  you  had  better  not 
mention  anything — to  quote  Johnson — of  Benson's  spifli- 
cation." 

"Certainly  not,  sir." 

The  wise  youth's  hint  had  the  desired  effect  on  Richard. 

He  dashed  off  a  hasty  letter  by  Tom  to  Belthorpe,  and, 
mounting  his  horse,  galloped  to  the  Bellingham  station. 

Sir  Austin  was  sitting  down  to  a  quiet  early  dinner  at 
his  hotel,  when  the  Hope  of  Raynham  burst  into  his  room. 

The  baronet  was  not  angry  with  his  son.  On  the  con- 
trary, for  he  was  singularly  just  and  self-accusing  while 
pride  was  not  up  in  arms,  ho  had  been  thinking  all  day 
after  the  receipt  of  Benson's  letter  that  he  was  deficient  in 
cordiality,  and  did  not,  by  reason  of  his  excessive  anxiety, 
make  himself  sufficiently  his  son's  companion:  was  not 
enough,  as  he  strove  to  be,  mother  and  father  to  him;  pre- 
ceptor and  friend;  previsor  and  associate.  He  had  not  to 
ask  his  conscience  where  he  had  lately  been  to  blame  to- 
wards the  System.  He  had  slunk  away  from  Raynham  in 
the  very  crisis  of  the  Magnetic  Age,  and  this  young  woman 
of  the  parish  (as  Benson  had  termed  sweet  Lucy  in  his 
letter)   was  the  consequence. 

Yesl  pride  and  sensitiveness  were  his  chief  foes,  and 
he  would  trample  on  them.  To  begin,  he  embraced  his 
son:  hard  upon  an  Englishman  at  any  time — doubly  so 
to  one  so  shamefaced  at  emotion  in  cool  blood,  as  it  were. 
It  gave  him  a  strange  pleasure,  nevertheless.  And  the 
youth  seemed  to  answer  to  it;  he  was  excited.  Was  his 
love,  then,  beginning  to  correspond  with  his  father's  as 
in  those  intimate  days  before  the  Blossoming  Season? 

But  when  Richard,  inarticulate  at  first  in  his  haste, 
cried  out,  "My  dear,  dear  father!    You  are  safe!     I  feared 

You  are  better,  sir?     Thank  God!"  Sir  Austin  stood 

away  from  him. 


RICHARD  HEARS  A  SERMON  147 

"Safe?"  he  said.     "What  has  alarmed  you?" 

Instead  of  replying,  Richard  dropped  into  a  chair,  and 
seized  his  hand  and  kissed  it. 

Sir  Austin  took  a  seat,  and  waited  for  his  son  to  ex- 
plain. 

"Those  doctors  are  such  fools!"  Richard  broke  out.  "I 
was  sure  they  were  wrong.  They  don't  know  headache 
from  apoplexy.  It's  worth  the  ride,  sir,  to  see  you.  You 
left  Raynham  so  suddenly. — But  you  are  well !  It  was  not 
an  attack  of  real  apoplexy?" 

His  father's  brows  contorted,  and  he  said,  No,  it  was 
not.     Richard  pursued : 

"If  you  were  ill,  I  couldn't  come  too  soon,  though,  if 
coroners'  inquests  sat  on  horses,  those  doctors  would  be 
found  guilty  of  mare-slaughter.  Cassandra'll  be  knocked 
up.  I  was  too  early  for  the  train  at  Bellingham,  and  I 
wouldn't  wait.  She  did  the  distance  in  four  hours  and 
three-quarters.     Pretty  good,   sir,   wasn't   it?" 

"It  has  given  you  appetite  for  dinner,  I  hope,"  said  the 
baronet,  not  so  well  pleased  to  find  that  it  was  not 
simple  obedience  that  had  brought  the  youth  to  him  in 
such  haste. 

"I'm  ready,"  replied  Richard.  "I  shall  be  in  time  to 
return  by  the  last  train  to-night.  I  will  leave  Cassandra 
in  your  charge  for  a  rest." 

His  father  quietly  helped  him  to  soup,  which  he  com- 
menced gobbling  with  an  eagerness  that  might  pass  for 
appetite. 

"All  well  at  Raynham?"  said  the  baronet. 

"Quite,  sir." 

"Nothing  new?" 

"Nothing,  sir." 

"The  same  as  when  I  left  ?" 

"No  change  whatever!" 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  get  back  to  the  old  place,"  said  the 
baronet.  "My  stay  in  town  has  certainly  been  profitable. 
I  have  made  some  pleasant  acquaintances  who  may  prob- 
ably favour  us  with  a  visit  there  in  the  late  autumn — 
people  you  may  be  pleased  to  know.  They  are  very  anx- 
ious to  see  Raynham." 

"I  love  the  old  place,"  cried  Richard.  "I  never  wish  to 
leave  it." 


148      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"Why,  boy,  before  I  left  you  were  constantly  begging  to 
9ee  town." 

••Was  I,  sir?    1 1  ■ -.  <»dd!    Well!  I  don'l  want  to  remain 
here.     I've  seen  enough  of  it." 

"How  did  you  find  your  way  to  me?" 
Kir-hard   laughed,  and  related  his  bewilderment  at  the 
miles  of   brick,  and  the  noise,  and  the  troops  of  people, 
concluding,  "There's  no  place  like  home!" 

The  baronet  watched  his  symptomatic  brilliant  eyes, 
and  favoured  him  with  a  double-dealing  sentence — 

"To  anchor  the  heart  by  any  object  ere  we  have  half 
traversed  the  world,  is  youth's  foolishness,  my  son.  Rev- 
erence time!  A  better  maxim  that  than  your  Horatian." 
"He  knows  all!"  thought  Richard,  and  instantly  drew 
away  leagues  from  his  father,  and  threw  up  fortifications 
round  his  love  and  himself. 

Dinner   over,   Richard   looked  hurriedly   at   his   watch, 
and  said,  with  much  briskness,  "I  shall  just  be  in  time, 
sir,  if  we  walk.     Will  you  come  with  me  to  the  station?" 
The  baronet  did  not  answer. 

Richard  was  going  to  repeat  the  question,  but  found  his 
father's  eyes  fixed  on  him  so  meaningly  that  he  wavered, 
and  played  with  his  empty  glass. 

"I  think  we  will  have  a  little  more  claret,"  said  the 
baronet. 

Claret  was  brought,  and  they  were  left  alone. 
The  baronet  then  drew  within  arm's-reach  of  his  son, 
and  began : 

"I  am  not  aware  what  you  may  have  thought  of  me, 
Richard,  during  the  year9  we  have  lived  together;  and 
indeed  I  have  never  been  in  a  hurry  to  be  known  to  you; 
and,  if  I  had  died  before  my  work  was  done,  I  should  not 
have  complained  at  losing  half  my  reward,  in  hearing  you 
thank  me.  Perhaps,  as  it  is,  I  never  may.  Everything, 
save  selfishness,  has  its  recompense.  I  shall  be  content  if 
you  prosper." 

He  fetched  a  breath  and  continued :  "You  had  in  your 
infancy  a  great  loss."  Father  and  son  coloured  simul- 
taneously. "To  make  that  good  to  you  I  chose  to  isolate 
myself  from  the  world,  and  devote  myself  entirely  to  your 
welfare;  and  I  think  it  is  not  vanity  that  tells  me  now 
that  the  son  I  have  reared  is  one  of  the  most  hopeful  of 


RICHARD  HEARS  A  SERMON  149 

God's  creatures.  But  for  that  very  reason  you  are  open 
to  be  tempted  the  most,  and  to  sink  the  deepest.  It  was 
the  first  of  the  angels  who  made  the  road  to  hell." 

He  pausedfagain.    Richard  fingered  at  his  watch. 

"In  our  House,  my  son,  there  is  peculiar  blood.  We  go 
to  wreck  very  easily.  It  sounds  like  superstition ;  I  cannot 
but  think  we  are  tried  as  most  men  are  not.  I  see  it  in  us 
all.  And  you,  my  son,  are  compounded  of  two  races. 
Your  passions  are  violent.  You  have  had  a  taste  of 
revenge.  You  have  seen,  in  a  small  way,  that  the  pound 
of  flesh  draws  rivers  of  blood.  But  there  is  now  in  you 
another  power.  You  are  mounting  to  the  table-land  of 
life,  where  mimic  battles  are  changed  to  real  ones.  And 
you  come  upon  it  laden  equally  with  force  to  create  and 
to  destroy."  He  deliberated  to  announce  the  intelligence, 
with  deep  meaning:  "There  are  women  in  the  world,  my 
son !" 

The  young  man's  heart  galloped  back  to  Raynham. 

"It  is  when  you  encounter  them  that  you  are  thoroughly 
on  trial.  It  is  when  you  know  them  that  life  is  either  a 
mockery  to  you,  or,  as  some  find  it,  a  gift  of  blessedness. 
They  are  our  ordeal.  Love  of  any  human  object  is  the 
soul's  ordeal;  and  they  are  ours,  loving  them,  or  not." 

The  young  man  heard  the  whistle  of  the  train.  He 
saw  the  moon-lighted  wood,  and  the  vision  of  his  beloved. 
He  could  barely  hold  himself  down  and  listen. 

"I  believe,"  the  baronet  spoke  with  little  of  the  cheer- 
fulness of  belief,  "good  women  exist." 

Oh,  if  he  knew  Lucy! 

"But,"  and  he  gazed  on  Richard  intently,  "it  is  given 
to  very  few  to  meet  them  on  the  threshold — I  may  say,  to 
none.  We  find  them  after  hard  buffeting,  and  usually, 
when  we  find  the  one  fitted  for  us,  our  madness  has  mis- 
shaped our  destiny,  our  lot  is  cast.  For  women  are  not  the 
end,  but  the  means,  of  life.  In  youth  we  think  them  the 
former,  and  thousands,  who  have  not  even  the  excuse  of 
youth,  select  a  mate — or  worse — with  that  sole  view.  I 
believe  women  punish  us  for  so  perverting  their  uses. 
They  punish  Society." 

The  baronet  put  his  hand  to  his  brow  as  his  mind 
travelled  into  consequences. 

"Our  most   diligent  pupil  learns   not   so   much   as   an 


150       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

earnest  teacher,"  says  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip;  and  Sir 
Austin,  in  schooling  himself  to  speak  with  moderation  of 
women,  was  beginning  to  get  a  glimpse  of  their  side  of 
the  case. 

Cold  Blood  now  touched  on  love  to  Hot  Blood. 

Cold  Blood  said,  "It  is  a  passion  coming  in  the  order 
of  nature,  the  ripe  fruit  of  our  animal  being." 

Hot  Blood  felt:  "It  is  a  divinity!  All  that  is  worth 
living  for  in  the  world." 

Cold  Blood  said:  "It  is  a  fever  which  tests  our  strength, 
and  too  often  leads  to  perdition." 

Hot  Blood  felt:  "Lead  whither  it  will,  I  follow  it." 

Cold  Blood  said:  "It  is  a  name  men  and  women  are 
much  in  the  habit  of  employing  to  sanctify  their  ap- 
petites." 

Hot  Blood  felt:  "It  is  worship;  religion;  life! 

And  so  the  two  parallel  lines  ran  on. 

The  baronet  became  more  personal : 

"You  know  my  love  for  you,  my  son.  The  extent  of  it 
you  cannot  know ;  but  you  must  know  that  it  is  something 
very  deep,  and — I  do  not  wish  to  speak  of  it — but  a  father 
must  sometimes  petition  for  gratitude,  since  the  only  true 
expression  of  it  is  his  son's  moral  good.  If  you  care  for 
my  love,  or  love  me  in  return,  aid  me  with  all  your  en- 
ergies to  keep  you  what  I  have  made  you,  and  guard  you 
from  the  snares  besetting  you.  It  was  in  my  hands  once. 
It  is  ceasing  to  be  so.  Remember,  my  son,  what  my  love 
is.  It  is  different,  I  fear,  with  most  fathers:  but  I  am 
bound  up  in  your  welfare :  what  you  do  affects  me  vitally. 
You  will  take  no  step  that  is  not  intimate  with  my  hap- 
piness, or  my  misery.  And  I  have  had  great  disappoint- 
ments, my  son." 

So  far  it  was  well.  Richard  loved  his  father,  and  even 
in  his  frenzied  state  he  could  not  without  emotion  hear 
him  thus  speak. 

Unhappily,  the  baronet,  who  by  some  fatality  never 
could  see  when  he  was  winning  the  battle,  thought  proper 
in  his  wisdom  to  water  the  dryness  of  his  sermon  with  a 
little  jocoseness,  on  the  subject  of  young  men  fancying 
themselves  in  love,  and,  when  they  were  raw  and  green, 
absolutely  wanting  to  be — that  most  awful  thing,  which 
the  wisest  and  strongest  of  men  undertake  in  hesitation 


EICHARD  HEARS  A   SERMON  151 

and  after  self-mortification  and  penance — married!  He 
sketched  the  Foolish  Young  Fellow — the  object  of  general 
ridicule  and  covert  contempt.  He  sketched  the  Woman — 
the  strange  thing  made  in  our  image,  and  with  all  our 
faculties — passing  to  the  rule  of  one  who  in  taking  her 
proved  that  he  could  not  rule  himself,  and  had  no  knowl- 
edge of  her  save  as  a  choice  morsel  which  he  would  burn 
the  whole  world,  and  himself  in  the  bargain,  to  possess. 
He  harped  upon  the  Foolish  Young  Fellow,  till  the  foolish 
young  fellow  felt  his  skin  tingle  and  was  half-suffocated 
with  shame  and  rage. 

After  this,  the  baronet  might  be  as  wise  as  he  pleased: 
he  had  quite  undone  his  work.  He  might  analyze  Love 
and  anatomize  Woman.  He  might  accord  to  her  her  due 
position,  and  paint  her  fair:  he  might  be  shrewd,  jocose, 
gentle,  pathetic,  wonderfully  wise:  he  spoke  to  deaf  ears. 

Closing  his  sermon  with  the  question,  softly  uttered: 
"Have  you  anything  to  tell  me,  Richard  ?"  and  hoping  for 
a  confession,  and  a  thorough  re-establishment  of  confi- 
dence, the  callous  answer  struck  him  cold:  "I  have  not." 

The  baronet  relapsed  in  his  chair,  and  made  diagrams 
of  his  fingers. 

Richard  turned  his  back  on  further  dialogue  by  going 
to  the  window.  In  the  section  of  sky  over  the  street 
twinkled  two  or  three  stars;  shining  faintly,  feeling  the 
moon.  The  moon  was  rising:  the  woods  were  lifting  up 
to  her :  his  star  of  the  woods  would  be  there.  A  bed  of 
moss  set  about  flowers  in  a  basket  under  him  breathed 
to  his  nostril  of  the  woodland  keenly,  and  filled  him  with 
delirious  longing. 

A  succession  of  hard  sighs  brought  his  father's  hand  on 
his  shoulder. 

"You  have  nothing  you  could  say  to  me,  my  son  ?  Tell 
me,  Richard!  Remember,  there  is  no  home  for  the  soul 
where  dwells  a  shadow  of  untruth !" 

"Nothing  at  all,  sir,"  the  young  man  replied,  meeting 
him  with  the  full  orbs  of  his  eyes. 

The  baronet  withdrew  his  hand,  and  paced  the  room. 

At  last  it  grew  impossible  for  Richard  to  control  his 
impatience,  and  he  said :  "Do  you  intend  me  to  stay  here, 
sir?     Am  I  not  to  return  to  Raynham  at  all  to-night?" 

His  father  was  again  falsely  jocular: 


152       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"What?  and  catch  the  train  after  giving  it  ten  minutes' 
start  <" 

"Cassandra  will  take  me,"  said  the  young  man  earnestly. 
"I  needn't  ride  her  hard,  sir.  Or  perhaps  you  would  lend 
me  your  Winkelried!  I  should  be  down  with  him  in  little 
better  than  three  hours." 

"Even  then,  you  know,  the  park-gates  would  be  locked." 

"Well,  I  could  stable  him  in  the  village.  Dowling  knows 
the  horse,  and  would  treat  him  properly.  May  I  have 
him,  sir?" 

The  cloud  cleared  off  Richard's  face  as  he  asked.  At 
least,  if  he  missed  his  love  that  night  ho  would  be  near 
her,  breathing  the  same  air,  marking  w-hat  star  was  above 
her  bedchamber,  hearing  the  hushed  night-talk  of  the 
trees  about  her  dwelling:  looking  on  the  distances  that 
were  like  hope  half-fulfilled  and  a  bodily  presence  bright 
as  Hesper,  since  he  knew  her.  There  were  two  swallows 
under  the  eaves  shadowing  Lucy's  chamber-windows:  two 
swallows,  mates  in  one  nest,  blissful  birds,  who  twittered 
and  cheep-cheeped  to  the  sole-lying  beauty  in  her  bed. 
Around  these  birds  the  lover's  heart  revolved,  he  knew 
not  why.  He  associated  them  with  all  his  close-veiled 
dreams  of  happiness.  Seldom  a  morning  passed  when  he 
did  not  watch  them  leave  the  nest  on  their  breakfast- 
flight,  busy  in  the  happy  stillness  of  dawn.  It  seemed  to 
him  now  that  if  he  could  be  at  Raynham  to  see  them  in 
to-morrow's  dawn  he  would  be  compensated  for  his  incal- 
culable loss  of  to-night:  he  would  forgive  and  love  his 
father,  London,  the  life,  the  world.  Just  to  see  those 
purple  backs  and  white  breasts  flash  out  into  the  quiet 
morning  air!     He  wanted  no  more. 

The  baronet's  trifling  had  placed  this  enormous  boon 
within  the  young  man's  visionary  grasp. 

He  still  went  on  trying  the  boy's  temper. 

"You  know  there  would  be  nobody  ready  for  you  at 
Raynham.     It  is  unfair  to  disturb  the  maids." 

Richard  overrode  every  objection. 

"Well,  then,  my  son,"  said  the  baronet,  preserving  his 
half-jocular  air,  "I  must  tell  you  that  it  is  my  wish  to 
have  you    in   town." 

"Then  you  have  not  been  ill  at  all,  sir!"  cried  Richard, 
as  in  his  despair  he  seized  the  whole  plot. 


THE  APPROACHES  OF  FEVER  153 

"I  have  been  as  well  as  you  could,  have  desired  me  to 
be,"  said  his  father. 

'Why  did  they  lie  to  me?"  the  young  man  wrathfully 
exclaimed. 

"I  think,  Richard,  you  can  best  answer  that,"  rejoined 
Sir  Austin,  kindly  severe. 

Dread  of  being  signalized  as  the  Foolish  Young  Fellow 
prevented  Richard  from  expostulating  further.  Sir  Austin 
saw  him  grinding  his  passion  into  powder  for  future  ex- 
plosion, and  thought  it  best  to  leave  him  for  awhile. 


CHAPTER    XXII 
INDICATES   THE   APPROACHES    OF   FEVER 

For  three  weeks  Richard  had  to  remain  in  town  and 
endure  the  teachings  of  the  System  in  a  new  atmosphere. 
He  had  to  sit  and  listen  to  men  of  science  who  came  to 
renew  their  intimacy  with  his  father,  and  whom  of  all  men 
his  father  wished  him  to  respect  and  study;  practically 
scientific  men  being,  in  the  baronet's  estimation,  the  only 
minds  thoroughly  mated  and  enviable.  He  had  to  endure 
an  introduction  to  the  Grandisons,  and  meet  the  eyes  of 
his  kind,  haunted  as  he  was  by  the  Foolish  Young  Fellow. 
The  idea  that  he  might  by  any  chance  be  identified  with 
him  held  the  poor  youth  in  silent  subjection.  And  it  was 
horrible.  For  it  was  a  continued  outrage  on  the  fair 
image  he  had  in  his  heart.  The  notion  of  the  world  laugh- 
ing at  him  because  he  loved  sweet  Lucy  stung  him  to 
momentary  frenzies,  and  developed  premature  misanthropy 
in  his  spirit.  Also  the  System  desired  to  show  him 
whither  young  women  of  the  parish  lead  us,  and  he  was 
dragged  about  at  night-time  to  see  the  sons  and  daughters 
of  darkness,  after  the  fashion  prescribed  to  Mr.  Thomp- 
son; how  they  danced  and  ogled  down  the  high  road  to 
perdition.  But  from  this  sight  possibly  the  teacher  learnt 
more  than  his  pupil,  since  we  find  him  seriously  asking 
his  meditative  hours,  in  the  Note-book:  'Wherefore  Wild 
Oats  are  only  of  one  gender?"  a  question  certainly  not 
suggested  to  him  at  Raynham ;  and  again — "Whether  men 


134       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

might  not  be  attaching  too  rigid  an  importance?"  .  .  . 
to  a  subject  with  a  dotted  tail  apparently,  for  he  gives 
it  no  other  in  the  Note-book.  But,  as  I  apprehend,  he 
had  come  to  plead  in  behalf  of  women  here,  and  had 
deduced  something  from  positive  observation.  To  Richard 
the  scenes  he  witnessed  were  strange  wild  pictures,  likely 
if  anything  to  have  increased  his  misanthropy,  but  for 
his  love. 

Certain  sweet  little  notes  from  Lucy  sustained  the  lover 
during  the  first  two  weeks  of  exile.  They  ceased  ;  and  now 
Richard  fell  into  such  despondency  that  his  father  in 
alarm  had  to  take  measures  to  hasten  their  return  to 
Raynham.  At  the  close  of  the  third  week  Berry  laid  a 
pair  of  letters,  bearing  the  Raynham  post-mark,  on  the 
breakfast-table,  and,  after  reading  one  attentively,  the 
baronet  asked  his  son  if  he  was  inclined  to  quit  the 
metropolis. 

"For  Raynham,  sir?"  cried  Richard,  and  relapsed,  say- 
ing, "As  you  will!"  aware  that  he  had  given  a  glimpse 
of  the  Foolish  Young  Fellow. 

Berry  accordingly  received  orders  to  make  arrangements 
for  their  instant  return  to  Raynham. 

The  letter  Sir  Austin  lifted  his  head  from  to  bespeak 
his  son's  wishes  was  a  composition  of  the  wise  youth 
Adrian's,  and  ran  thus: 

"Benson  is  doggedly  recovering.  He  requires  great  in- 
demnities. Happy  when  a  faithful  fool  is  the  main  suf- 
ferer in  a  household!  I  quite  agree  with  you  that  our 
faithful  fool  is  the  best  servant  of  great  schemes.  Benson 
is  now  a  piece  of  history.  I  tell  him  that  this  is  indemnity 
enough,  and  that  the  sweet  Muse  usually  insists  upon 
gentlemen  being  half-flayed  before  she  will  condescend  to 
notice  them;  but  Benson,  I  regret  to  say,  rejects  the  com- 
fort so  fine  a  reflection  should  offer,  and  had  rather  keep 
his  skin  and  live  opaque.  Heroism  seems  partly  a  matter 
of  training.  Faithful  folly  is  Benson's  nature:  the  rest 
has  been  thrust  upon  him. 

"The  young  person  has  resigned  the  neighbourhood.  I 
had  an  interview  with  the  fair  Papist  myself,  and  also 
with  the  man  Blaize.  They  were  both  sensible,  though 
one  swore  and  the  other  sighed.     She  is  pretty.     I  hope 


THE  APPKOACHES  OF  FEVER  155 

she  does  not  paint.  I  can  affirm  that  her  legs  are  strong, 
for  she  walks  to  Bellingham  twice  a  week  to  take  her 
Scarlet  bath,  when,  having  confessed  and  been  made  clean 
by  the  Romish  unction,  she  walks  back  the  brisker,  of 
which  my  Protestant  muscular  system  is  yet  aware.  It 
was  on  the  road  to  Bellingham  I  engaged  her.  She  is 
well  in  the  matter  of  hair.  Madam  Godiva  might  chal- 
lenge her,  it  would  be  a  fair  match.  Has  it  never  struck 
you  that  Woman  is  nearer  the  vegetable  than  Man? — Mr. 
Blaize  intends  her  for  his  son — a  junction  that  every  lover 
of  fairy  mythology  must  desire  to  see  consummated. 
Young  Tom  is  heir  to  all  the  agremens  of  the  Beast.  The 
maids  of  Lobourne  say  (I  hear)  that  he  is  a  very  Proculus 
among  them.  Possibly  the  envious  men  say  it  for  the 
maids.  Beauty  does  not  speak  bad  grammar — and  alto- 
gether she  is  better  out  of  the  way." 

The  other  letter  was  from  Lady  Blandish,  a  lady's  letter, 
and  said: 

"I  have  fulfilled  your  commission  to  the  best  of  my 
ability,  and  heartily  sad  it  has  made  me.  She  is  indeed 
very  much  above  her  station — pity  that  it  is  so!  She  is 
almost  beautiful — quite  beautiful  at  times,  and  not  in  any 
way  what  you  have  been  led  to  fancy.  The  poor  child 
had  no  story  to  tell.  I  have  again  seen  her,  and  talked 
with  her  for  an  hour  as  kindly  as  I  could.  I  could  gather 
nothing  more  than  we  know.  It  is  just  a  woman's  history 
as  it  invariably  commences.  Richard  is  the  god  of  her 
idolatry.  She  will  renounce  him,  and  sacrifice  herself  for 
his  sake.  Are  we  so  bad?  She  asked  me  what  she  was 
to  do.  She  would  do  whatever  was  imposed  upon  her — 
all  but  pretend  to  love  another,  and  that  she  never  would, 
and,  I  believe,  never  will.  You  know  I  am  sentimental, 
and  I  confess  we  dropped  a  few  tears  together.  Her  uncle 
has  sent  her  for  the  Winter  to  the  institution  where  it 
appears  she  was  educated,  and  where  they  are  very  fond 
of  her  and  want  to  keep  her,  which  it  would  be  a  good 
thing  if  they  were  to  do.  The  man  is  a  good  sort  of  man. 
She  was  entrusted  to  him  by  her  father,  and  he  never 
interferes  with  her  religion,  and  is  very  scrupulous  about 
all  that  pertains  to  it,  though,  as  he  says,  he  is  a  Christian 


15G       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

himself.  Tn  the  Spring  (but  the  poor  child  does  not 
know  this)  she  is  to  come  back,  and  be  married  to  his 
lout  of  a  son.  I  am  determined  to  prevent  that.  May  I 
not  reckon  on  your  promise  to  aid  me?  When  you  see 
her,  I  am  sure  vim  will.  It  would  be  sacrilege  to  look 
on  and  permit  such  a  thing.  You  know,  they  are  cousins. 
She  asked  me,  where  in  the  world  there  was  one  like 
Richard?  What  could  I  answer?  They  were  your  own 
words,  and  spoken  with  a  depth  of  conviction!  I  hope 
he  is  really  calm.  I  shudder  to  think  of  him  when  he 
comes,  and  discovers  what  I  have  been  doing.  I  hope  I 
have  been  really  doing  right !  A  good  deed,  you  say, 
never  dies;  but  we  cannot  always  know — I  must  rely  on 
you.  Yes,  it  is,  I  should  think,  easy  to  suffer  martyrdom 
when  one  is  sure  of  one's  cause!  but  then  one  must  be 
sure  of  it.  I  have  done  nothing  lately  but  to  repeat  to 
myself  that  saying  of  yours,  Xo.  54,  C.  7,  P.S. ;  and  it 
has  consoled  me,  I  cannot  say  why,  except  that  all  wisdom 
consoles,  whether  it  applies  directly  or  not: 

"'For  this  reason  so  many  fall  from  God,  who  have  at- 
tained to  Him;  that  they  cling  to  Him  with  their  Weak- 
ness, not  with  their  Strength.' 

"I  like  to  know  of  what  you  are  thinking  when  you 
composed  this  or  that  saying — what  suggested  it.  May 
not  one  be  admitted  to  inspect  the  machinery  of  wisdom? 
I  feel  curious  to  know  how  thoughts — real  thoughts — are 
born.  Not  that  I  hope  to  win  the  secret.  Here  is  the 
beginning  of  one  (but  we  poor  women  can  never  put  to- 
gether even  two  of  the  three  ideas  which  you  say  go  to 
form  a  thought)  :  'When  a  wise  man  makes  a  false  step, 
will  he  not  go  farther  than  a  fool?'  It  has  just  flitted 
through  me. 

"I  cannot  get  on  with  Gibbon,  so  wait  your  return  to 
recommence  the  readings.  I  dislike  the  sneering  essence 
of  his  writings.  I  keep  referring  to  his  face,  until  the 
dislike  seems  to  become  personal.  How  different  it  is 
with  Wordsworth !  And  yet  I  cannot  escape  from  the 
thought  that  ho  is  always  solemnly  thinking  of  himself 
(but  I  do  reverence  him).  But  this  is  curious;  Byron 
was  a  greater  egoist,  and  yet  I  do  not  feel  the  same  with 


THE  APPROACHES  OF  FEVER  157 

him.  He  reminds  me  of  a  beast  of  the  desert,  savage  and 
beautiful ;  and  the  former  is  what  one  would  imagine 
a  superior  donkey  reclaimed  from  the  heathen  to  be — a 
very  superior  donkey,  I  mean,  with  great  power  of  speech 
and  great  natural  complacency,  and  whose  stubbornness 
you  must  admire  as  part  of  his  mission.  The  worst  is 
that  no  one  will  imagine  anything  sublime  in  a  superior 
donkey,  so  my  simile  is  unfair  and  false.  Is  it  not 
strange?  I  love  Wordsworth  best,  and  yet  Byron  has  the 
greater  power  over  me.     How  is  that  ?" 

("Because,"  Sir  Austin  wrote  beside  the  query  in  pencil, 
"women  are  cowards,  and  succumb  to  Irony  and  Passion, 
rather  than  yield  their  hearts  to  Excellence  and  Nature's 
Inspiration.") 

The  letter  pursued: 

"I  have  finished  Boiardo  and  have  taken  up  Berni.  The 
latter  offends  me.  I  suppose  we  women  do  not  really  care 
for  humour.  You  are  right  in  saying  we  have  none  our- 
selves, and  'cackle'  instead  of  laugh.  It  is  true  (of  me, 
at  least)  that  'Falstaff  is  only  to  us  an  incorrigible  fat 
man.'  I  want  to  know  what  he  illustrates.  And  Don 
Quixote — what  end  can  be  served  in  making  a  noble  mind 
ridiculous? — I  hear  you  say — practical!  So  it  is.  We 
are  very  narrow,  I  know.  But  we  like  wit — practical 
again !  Or  in  your  words  (when  I  really  think  they  gener- 
ally come  to  my  aid — perhaps  it  is  that  it  is  often  all 
your  thought);  we  'prefer  the  rapier  thrust,  to  the  broad 
embrace,  of  Intelligence.' " 

He  trifled  with  the  letter  for  some  time,  re-reading 
chosen  passages  as  he  walked  about  the  room,  and  con- 
sidering he  scarce  knew  what.  There  are  ideas  language 
is  too  gross  for,  and  shape  too  arbitrary,  which  come  to 
us  and  have  a  definite  influence  upon  us,  and  yet  we 
cannot  fasten  on  the  filmy  things  and  make  them  visible 
and  distinct  to  ourselves,  much  less  to  others.  Why  did 
he  twice  throw  a  look  into  the  glass  in  the  act  of  passing 
it?  He  stood  for  a  moment  with  head  erect  facing  it. 
His  eyes  for  the  nonce  seemed  little  to  peruse  his  outer 
features ;  the  grey  gathered  brows,  and  the  wrinkles  much 


158      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

;iction  of  them  had  traced  over  the  circles  half  up  his 
high  straight  forehead;  the  iron-grey  hair  that  rose  over 
his  forehead  and  fell  away  in  the  fashion  of  Richard's 
plume.  His  general  appearance  showed  the  tints  of  years; 
but  none  of  their  weight,  and  nothing  of  the  dignity  of 
his  youth,  was  gone.  It  was  so  far  satisfactory,  but 
his  eyes  were  wide,  as  one  who  looks  at  his  essential  self 
through  the  mask  we  wear.  Perhaps  he  was  speculating 
as  he  looked  on  the  sort  of  aspect  he  presented  to  the 
lady's  discriminative  regard.  Of  her  feelings  he  had  not 
a  suspicion.  But  he  knew  with  what  extraordinary  lu- 
cidity women  can,  when  it  pleases  them,  and  when  their 
feelings  are  not  quite  boiling  under  the  noonday  sun, 
seize  all  the  sides  of  a  character,  and  put  their  fingers 
on  its  weak  point.  He  was  cognizant  of  the  total  absence 
of  the  humorous  in  himself  (the  want  that  most  shut 
him  out  from  his  fellows),  and  perhaps  the  clear- 
thoughted,  intensely  self-examining  gentleman  filmily  con- 
ceived, Me  also,  in  common  with  the  poet,  she  gazes  on 
as  one  of  the  superior — grey  beasts! 

He  may  have  so  conceived  the  case;  he  was  capable  of 
that  great-mindedness,  and  could  snatch  at  times  very 
luminous  glances  at  the  broad  reflector  which  the  world 
of  fact  lying  outside  our  narrow  compass  holds  up  for  us 
to  see  ourselves  in  when  we  will.  Unhappily,  the  faculty 
of  laughter,  which  is  due  to  this  gift,  was  denied  him; 
and  having  seen,  he,  like  the  companion  of  friend  Balaam, 
could  go  no  farther.  For  a  good  wind  of  laughter  had 
relieved  him  of  much  of  the  blight  of  self-deception,  and 
oddness,  and  extravagance;  had  given  a  healthier  view 
of  our  atmosphere  of  life;  but  he  had  it  not. 

Journeying  back  to  Bellingham  in  the  train,  with  the 
heated  brain  and  brilliant  eye  of  his  son  beside  him,  Sir 
Austin  tried  hard  to  feel  infallible,  as  a  man  with  a 
System  should  feel ;  and  because  he  could  not  do  so,  after 
much  mental  conflict,  he  descended  to  entertain  a  personal 
antagonism  to  the  young  woman  who  had  stepped  in  be- 
tween his  experiment  and  success.  He  did  not  think 
kindly  of  her.  Lady  Blandish's  encomiums  of  her  be- 
haviour and  her  beauty  annoyed  him.  Forgetful  that  he 
had  in  a  meanuro.  forfeited  his  rights  to  it.  he  took  the 
common  ground  of  fathers,  and  demanded,  "Why  he  was 


THE  APPROACHES  OF  FEVER  159 

not  justified  in  doing  all  that  lay  in  his  power  to  prevent 
his  son  from  casting  himself  away  upon  the  first  creature 
with  a  pretty  face  he  encountered?"  Deliberating  thus, 
he  lost  the  tenderness  he  should  have  had  for  his  experi- 
mentr— the  living,  burning  youth  at  his  elbow,  and  his 
excessive  love  for  him  took  a  rigorous  tone.  It  appeared 
to  him  politic,  reasonable,  and  just,  that  the  uncle  of 
this  young  woman,  who  had  so  long  nursed  the  prudent 
scheme  of  marrying  her  to  his  son,  should  not  only  not 
be  thwarted  in  his  object  but  encouraged  and  even  as- 
sisted. At  least,  not  thwarted.  Sir  Austin  had  no  glass 
before  him  while  these  ideas  hardened  in  his  mind,  and 
he  had  rather  forgotten  the  letter  of  Lady  Blandish. 

Father  and  son  were  alone  in  the  railway  carriage. 
Both  were  too  preoccupied  to  speak.  As  they  neared 
Bellingham,  the  dark  was  filling  the  hollows  of  the 
country.  Over  the  pine-hills  beyond  the  station  a  last 
rosy  streak  lingered  across  a  green  sky.  Richard  eyed 
it  while  they  flew  along.  It  caught  him  forward:  it 
seemed  full  of  the  spirit  of  his  love,  and  brought  tears 
of  mournful  longing  to  his  eyelids.  The  sad  beauty  of 
that  one  spot  in  the  heavens  seemed  to  call  out  to  his 
soul  to  swear  to  his  Lucy's  truth  to  him:  was  like  the 
sorrowful  visage  of  his  fleur-de-luce,  as  he  called  her, 
appealing  to  him  for  faith.  That  tremulous  tender  way 
she  had  of  half-closing  and  catching  light  on  the  nether- 
lids,  when  sometimes  she  looked  up  in  her  lover's  face — 
a  look  so  mystic-sweet  that  it  had  grown  to  be  the  foun- 
tain of  his  dreams :  he  saw  it  yonder,  and  his  blood  thrilled. 
Know  you  those  wand-like  touches  of  I  know  not  what, 
before  which  our  grosser  being  melts,  and  we,  much  as  we 
hope  to  be  in  the  Awaking,  stand  etherealized,  trembling 
with  new  joy?  They  come  but  rarely;  rarely  even  in  love, 
when  we  fondly  think  them  revelations.  Mere  sensations 
they  are,  doubtless :  and  we  rank  for  them  no  higher  in  the 
spiritual  scale  than  so  many  translucent  glorious  polypi 
that  quiver  on  the  shores,  the  hues  of  heaven  running 
through  them.  Yet  in  the  harvest  of  our  days  it  is 
something  for  the  animal  to  have  had  such  mere  fleshly 
polypian  experiences  to  look  back  upon,  and  they  give  him 
an  horizon — pale  seas  of  luring  splendour.  One  who  has 
had  them  (when  they  do  not  bound  him)  may  find  the 


l<;i>      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

Isles  of  Bliss  sooner  than  another.  Sensual  faith  in  the 
upper  glories  is  something.  "Let  us  remember,"  says  The 
Pilgrim's  Suui\  ''that  Nature,  though  heathenish,  reaches 
at  her  best  to  the  footstool  of  the  Highest.  She  is  not 
all  dust,  but  a  living  portion  of  the  spheres.  In  aspira- 
tion it  is  our  error  to  despise  her,  forgetting  that  through 
Nature  only  can  we  ascend.  Cherished,  trained,  and 
purified,  sho  is  then  partly  worthy  the  divine  mate  who 
is  to  make  her  wholly  so.  St.  Simeon  saw  the  Hog  in 
Nature,  and  took  Nature  for  the  Hog." 

It  was  one  of  these  strange  bodily  exaltations  which 
thrilled  the  young  man,  he  knew  not  how  it  was,  for  sad- 
ness and  his  forebodings  vanished.  The  soft  wand  touched 
him.  At  that  moment,  had  Sir  Austin  spoken  openly, 
Richard  might  have  fallen  upon  his  heart.  He  could  not. 
He  chose  to  feel  injured  on  the  common  ground  of  fathers, 
and  to  pursue  his  System  by  plotting.  Lady  Blandish 
had  revived  his  jealousy  of  the  creature  who  menaced  it, 
and  jealousy  of  a  System  is  unreflecting  and  vindictive 
as  jealousy  of  woman. 

Heath-roots  and  pines  breathed  sharp  in  the  cool 
autumn  evening  about  the  Bellingham  station.  Richard 
stood  a  moment  as  he  stepped  from  the  train,  and  drew 
the  country  air  into  his  lungs  with  large  heaves  of  the 
chest.  Leaving  his  father  to  the  felicitations  of  the  sta- 
tion-master, he  went  into  the  Lobourne  road  to  look  for 
his  faithful  Tom,  who  had  received  private  orders  through 
Berry  to  be  in  attendance  with  his  young  master's  mare, 
Cassandra,  and  was  lurking  in  a  plantation  of  firs  un- 
enclosed on  the  borders  of  the  road,  where  Richard, 
knowing  his  retainer's  zest  for  conspiracy  too  well  to 
seek  him  anywhere  but  in  the  part  most  favoured  with 
shelter  and  concealment,  found  him  furtively  whiffing 
tobacco. 

'"What  news,  Tom?     Is  there  an  illness?" 

Tom  sent  his  undress  cap  on  one  side  to  scratch  at 
dilemma,  an  old  agricultural  habit  to  which  he  was  still 
a  slave  in  moments  of  abstract  thought  or  sudden  diffi- 
culty. 

"No,  I  don't  want  the  rake,  Mr.  Richard."  he  whinnied 
with  a  false  grin,  as  he  beheld  his  master's  eye  vacantly 
following  the  action. 


THE  APPEOACHES  OF  FEVER  161 

"Speak  out!"  he  was  commanded.  "I  haven't  had  a 
letter  for  a  week!" 

Richard  learnt  the  news.  He  took  it  with  surprising 
outward  calm,  only  getting  a  little  closer  to  Cassandra's 
neck,  and  looking  very  hard  at  Tom  without  seeing  a 
speck  of  him,  which  had  the  effect  on  Tom  of  making  him 
sincerely  wish  his  master  would  punch  his  head  at  once 
rather  than  fix  him  in  that  owl-like  way. 

"Go  on!"  said  Richard,  huskily.  "Yes?  She's  gone! 
Well?" 

Tom  was  brought  to  understand  he  must  make  the  most 
of  trifles,  and  recited  how  he  had  heard  from  a  female 
domestic  at  Belthorpe  of  the  name  of  Davenport,  formerly 
known  to  him,  that  the  young  lady  never  slept  a  wink 
from  the  hour  she  knew  she  was  going,  but  sat  up  in  her 
bed  till  morning  crying  most  pitifully,  though  she  never 
complained.  Hereat  the  tears  unconsciously  streamed 
down  Richard's  cheeks.  Tom  said  he  had  tried  to  see 
her,  but  Mr.  Adrian  kept  him  at  work,  ciphering  at  a  ter- 
rible sum — that  and  nothing  else  all  day!  saying,  it  was 
to  please  his  young  master  on  his  return.  "Likewise 
something  in  Lat'n,"  added  Tom.  "Nom'tive  Mouser! — 
'nough  to  make  ye  mad,  sir!"  he  exclaimed  with  pathos. 
The  wretch  had  been  put  to  acquire  a  Latin  declension. 

Tom  saw  her  on  the  morning  she  went  away,  he  said : 
she  was  very  sorrowful-looking,  and  nodded  kindly  to  him 
as  she  passed  in  the  fly  along  with  young  Tom  Blaize. 
"She  have  got  uncommon  kind  eyes,  sir,"  said  Tom, 
"and  cryin'  don't  spoil  them."  For  which  his  hand  was 
wrenched. 

Tom  had  no  more  to  tell,  save  that,  in  rounding  the 
road,  the  young  lady  had  hung  out  her  hand,  and  seemed 
to  move  it  forward  and  back,  as  much  as  to  say,  Good- 
bye, Tom!  "And  though  she  couldn't  see  me,"  said  Tom, 
"I  took  off  my  hat.  I  did  take  it  so  kind  of  her  to  think 
of  a  chap  like  me."  He  was  at  high-pressure  sentiment — 
what  with  his  education  for  a  hero  and  his  master's  love- 
stricken  state. 

"You  saw  no  more  of  her,  Tom?" 

"No,  sir.     That  was  the  last !" 

"That  was  the  last  you  saw  of  her,  Tom?" 

"Well,  sir,  I  saw  nothin'  more." 


L62       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD   FKVKRKL 

"And  so  she  went  out  of  sight!" 

"Clean  gone,  that  she  were,  sir." 

'Why  did  tiny  take  her  away?  what  have  they  done 
with  her?  where  have  they  taken  her  to?" 

These  red-hot  questionings  were  addressed  to  the  uni- 
versal   heaven   rather  than  to  Tom. 

"Why  didn't  she  write?"  they  were  resumed.  "Why  did 
she  leave?     She's  mine.     She  belongs  to  me!     Who  dared 

take  her  away?    Why  did  she  leave  without  writing? 

Tom!" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  well-drilled  recruit,  dressing  himself 
up  to  the  word  of  command.  He  expected  a  variation  of 
the  theme  from  the  change  of  tone  with  which  his  name 
had  been  pronounced,  but  it  was  again,  "Where  have  they 
taken  her  to?"  and  this  was  even  more  perplexing  to  Tom 
than  his  hard  sum  in  arithmetic  had  been.  He  could 
only  draw  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth  hard,  and  glance 
up  queerly. 

"She  had  been  crying — you  saw  that,  Tom?" 

"No  mistake  about  that,  Mr.  Richard.  Cryin'  all  night 
and  all  day,  I  sh'd  say." 

"And  she  was  crying  when  you  saw  her?" 

"She  look'd  as  if  she'd  just  done  for  a  moment,  sir." 

"But  her  face  was  white?" 

"White  as  a  sheet." 

Richard  paused  to  discover  whether  his  instinct  had 
caught  a  new  view  from  these  facts.  He  was  in  a  cage, 
always  knocking  against  the  same  bars,  fly  as  he  might. 
Her  tears  were  the  stars  in  his  black  night.  He  clung  to 
them  as  golden  orbs.  Inexplicable  as  they  were,  they  were 
at  least  pledges  of  love. 

The  hues  of  sunset  had  left  the  West.  No  light  was 
there  but  the  steadfast  pale  eye  of  twilight.  Thither  he 
was  drawn.  He  mounted  Cassandra,  saying:  "Tell  them 
something,  Tom.  I  shan't  be  home  to  dinner,"  and  rode 
off  toward  the  forsaken  home  of  light  over  Relthorpe, 
wherein  he  saw  the  wan  hand  of  his  Lucy,  waving  fare- 
well, receding  as  he  advanced.  His  jewel  was  stolen, — he 
must  gaze  upon  the  empty  box. 


CKISIS   IX  THE  APPLE-DISEASE  163 

CHAPTEE   XXIII 
CRISIS    IN   THE   APPLE-DISEASE 

Night  had  come  on  as  Richard  entered  the  old  elm- 
shaded,  grass-bordered  lane  leading  down  from  Raynham 
to  Belthorpe.  The  pale  eye  of  twilight  was  shut.  The 
wind  had  tossed  up  the  bank  of  Western  cloud,  which  was 
now  flying  broad  and  unlighted  across  the  sky,  broad  and 
balmy — the  charioted  South-west  at  full  charge  behind  his 
panting  coursers.  As  he  neared  the  farm  his  heart  flut- 
tered and  leapt  up.  He  was  sure  she  must  be  there. 
She  must  have  returned.  Why  should  she  have  left  for 
good  without  writing?  He  caught  suspicion  by  the 
throat,  making  it  voiceless,  if  it  lived :  he  silenced  reason. 
Her  not  writing  was  now  a  proof  that  she  had  returned. 
He  listened  to  nothing  but  his  imperious  passion,  and 
murmured  sweet  words  for  her,  as  if  she  were  by:  tender 
cherishing  epithets  of  love  in  the  nest.  She  was  there — 
she  moved  somewhere  about  like  a  silver  flame  in  the  dear 
old  house,  doing  her  sweet  household  duties.  His  blood 
began  to  sing:  O  happy  those  within,  to  see  her,  and  be 
about  her!  By  some  extraordinary  process  he  contrived 
to  cast  a  sort  of  glory  round  the  burly  person  of  Farmer 
Blaize  himself.  And  oh!  to  have  companionship  with  a 
seraph  one  must  know  a  seraph's  bliss,  and  was  not  young 
Tom  to  be  envied?  The  smell  of  late  clematis  brought 
on  the  wind  enwrapped  him,  and  went  to  his  brain,  and 
threw  a  light  over  the  old  red-brick  house,  for  he  remem- 
bered where  it  grew,  and  the  winter  rose-tree,  and  the 
jessamine,  and  the  passion-flower:  the  garden  in  front 
with  the  standard  roses  tended  by  her  hands;  the  long 
wall  to  the  left  striped  by  the  branches  of  the  cherry,  the 
peep  of  a  further  green  garden  through  the  wall,  and  then 
the  orchard,  and  the  fields  beyond — the  happy  circle  of  her 
dwelling!  it  flashed  before  his  eyes  while  he  looked  on  the 
darkness.  And  yet  it  was  the  reverse  of  hope  which 
kindled  this  light  and  inspired  the  momentary  calm  he 
experienced :  it  was  despair  exaggerating  delusion,  wilfully 
building  up  on  a  groundless  basis.  "For  the  tenacity  of 
true  passion  is  terrible,"  says  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip:  "it 


164      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

will  stand  against  the  hosts  of  heaven,  God's  great  array 

of  Facts,  rather  than  surrender  its  aim,  and  must  be 
crushed  before  it  will  succumb — sent  to  the  lowest  pit!" 
He  knew  she  was  not  there;  she  was  gone.  But  the 
power  of  a  will  strained  to  madness  fought  at  it,  kept 
it  down,  conjured  forth  her  ghost,  and  would  have  it  as 
he  dietated.  Poor  youth!  the  great  array  of  facts  was 
in  due  order  of  march. 

He  had  breathed  her  name  many  times,  and  once  over- 
loud  ;  almost  a  cry  for  her  escaped  him.  He  had  not 
noticed  the  opening  of  a  door  and  the  noise  of  a  foot 
along  the  gravel  walk.  He  was  leaning  over  Cassandra's 
uneasy  neck  watching  the  one  window  intently,  when  a 
voice  addressed  him  out  of  the  darkness. 

"Be  that  you,  young  gentleman  ? — Mr.  Fev'rel  ?" 
Richard's  trance  was  broken.     "Mr.  Blaize!"  he  said, 
recognizing  the  farmer's  voice. 

"Good  even'n  t'you,  sir,"  returned  the  farmer.  "I  knew 
the  mare  though  I  didn't  know  you.  Rather  bluff  to- 
night it  be.  Will  ye  step  in,  Mr.  Fev'rel?  it's  beginnin' 
to  spit — going  to  be  a  wildish  night,  I  reckon." 

Richard  dismounted.  The  farmer  called  one  of  his  men 
to  hold  the  mare,  and  ushered  the  young  man  in.  Once 
there,  Richard's  conjurations  ceased.  There  was  a  dead- 
ness  about  the  rooms  and  passages  that  told  of  her  ab- 
sence. The  walls  he  touched — these  were  the  vacant  shells 
of  her.  He  had  never  been  in  the  house  since  he  knew 
her,  and  now  what  strange  sweetness,  and  what  pangs! 

Young  Tom  Blaize  was  in  the  parlour,  squared  over  the 
table  in  open-mouthed  examination  of  an  ancient,  book  of 
the  fashions  for  a  summer  month  which  had  elapsed  dur- 
ing his  mother's  minority.  Young  Tom  wras  respectfully 
studying  the  aspects  of  the  radiant  beauties  of  the  polite 
work.  He  also  was  a  thrall  of  woman,  newly  enrolled, 
and  full  of  wonder. 

"What,  Tom!"  the  farmer  sang  out  as  soon  as  he  had 
opened  the  door;  "there  ye  be!  at  yer  Folly  agin,  are  ye? 
What  good'll  them  fashens  do  to  you,  I'd  like  t'know  ? 
Come,  shut  up,  and  go  and  see  to  Mr.  Fev'rel's  mare.  He's 
al'ays  at  that  ther'  Folly  now.  I  say  there  never  were  a 
better  name  for  a  book  than  that  ther'  Folly !  Talk  about 
attitudes!" 


CRISIS   IN  THE   APPLE-DISEASE  165 

The  farmer  laughed  his  fat  sides  into  a  chair,  and 
motioned  his  visitor  to  do  likewise. 

"It's  a  comfort  they're  most  on  'em  females,"  he  pur- 
sued, sounding  a  thwack  on  his  knee  as  he  settled  himself 
agreeably  in  his  seat.  "It  don't  matter  much  what  they 
does,  except  pinchin'  in — waspin'  it — at  the  waist.  Give 
me  nature,  I  say — woman  as  she's  made !  eh,  young  gentle- 
man?" 

"You  seem  very  lonely  here,"  said  Richard,  glancing 
round,  and  at  the  ceiling. 

"Lonely?"  quoth  the  farmer.  "Well,  for  the  matter  o' 
that,  we  be! — jest  now,  so't  happens;  I've  got  my  pipe, 
and  Tom've  got  his  Folly.  He's  on  one  side  the  table, 
and  I'm  on  t'other.  He  gaapes,  and  I  gazes.  We  are  a 
bit  lonesome.    But  there — it's  for  the  best!" 

Richard  resumed,  "I  hardly  expected  to  see  you  to- 
night, Mr.  Blaize." 

"Y'acted  like  a  man  in  coming,  young  gentleman,  and 
I  does  ye  honour  for  it !"  said  Farmer  Blaize  with 
sudden  energy  and  directness. 

The  thing  implied  by  the  farmer's  words  caused  Richard 
to  take  a  quick  breath.  They  looked  at  each  other,  and 
looked  away,  the  farmer  thrumming  on  the  arm  of  his 
chair. 

Above  the  mantel-piece,  surrounded  by  tarnished  indif- 
ferent miniatures  of  high-collared,  well-to-do  yeomen  of 
the  anterior  generation,  trying  their  best  not  to  grin,  and 
high-waisted  old  ladies  smiling  an  encouraging  smile 
through  plentiful  cap-puckers,  there  hung  a  passably  ex- 
ecuted half-figure  of  a  naval  officer  in  uniform,  grasping 
a  telescope  under  his  left  arm,  who  stood  forth  clearly 
as  not  of  their  kith  and  kin.  His  eyes  were  blue,  his 
hair  light,  his  bearing  that  of  a  man  who  knows  how 
to  carry  his  head  and  shoulders.  The  artist,  while  giving 
him  an  epaulette  to  indicate  his  rank,  had  also  recorded 
the  juvenility  which  a  lieutenant  in  the  naval  service 
can  retain  after  arriving  at  that  position,  by  painting 
him  with  smooth  cheeks  and  fresh  ruddy  lips.  To  this 
portrait  Richard's  eyes  were  directed.  Farmer  Blaize 
observed  it,  and  said — 

"Her  father,  sir!" 

Richard  moderated  his  voice  to  praise  the  likeness. 


1GG       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"Yes,"  said  the  farmer,  "pretty  well.  Next  best  to 
bavin'  her,  though   it's  a  long  way  ulT  that!" 

"An  old  family,  Mr.  Blaize — is  it  not?"  Richard  asked 

in  as  careless  a  tone  as  he  could   assume. 

"Gentlefolks — what's  left  of  'em,"  replied  the  farmer 
with  an  equally  affected  indifference. 

"And  that's  her  father?"  said  Richard,  growing  bolder 
to  speak  of  her. 

"That's  her  father,  young  gentleman!" 

"Mr.  Blaize,"  Richard  turned  to  face  him,  and  burst 
out,  "where  is  she?" 

"Gone,  sir!  packed  off! — Can't  have  her  here  now." 
The  farmer  thrummed  a  step  brisker,  and  eyed  the  young 
man's  wild  face  resolutely. 

"Mr.  Blaize,"  Richard  leaned  forward  to  get  closer  to 
him.  lie  was  stunned,  and  hardly  aware  of  what  he  was 
saving  or  doing:  "Where  has  she  gone?  Why  did  sin- 
leave?" 

"You  needn't  to  ask,  sir — ye  know,"  said  the  farmer, 
with  a  side  shot  of  his  head. 

"But  she  did  not — it  was  not  her  wish  to  go?" 

"No!  I  think  she  likes  the  place.  Mayhap  she  likes't 
too  well!" 

"Why  did  you  send  her  away  to  make  her  unhappy, 
Mr.  Blaize?" 

The  farmer  bluntly  denied  it  was  he  was  the  party  who 
made  her  unhappy.  "Nobody  can't  accuse  me.  Tell  ye 
what,  sir.  I  wunt  have  the  busybodies  set  to  work  about 
her,  and  there's  all  the  matter.  So  let  you  and  I  come  to 
an  understand  in'." 

A  blind  inclination  to  take  offence  made  Richard  sit 
upright.  He  forgot  it  the  next  minute,  and  said  humbly : 
"Am  I  the  cause  of  her  going?" 

"Well!"  returned  the  farmer,  "to  speak  straight — ye 
be!" 

"What  can  I  do,  Mr.  Blaize,  that  she  may  come  back 
again  ?"  the  young  hypocrite  asked. 

"Now,"  said  the  fanner,  "you're  coming  to  business. 
Glad  to  hear  ye  talk  in  that  sensible  way,  Mr.  Fev'rel. 
You  may  guess  I  wants  her  bad  enough.  The  house  ain't 
itself  now  she's  away,  and  I  ain't  myself.  Well,  sir! 
This  ye  can  do.     If  you  gives  me  your  promise  not  to 


CKISIS  IN  THE  APPLE-DISEASE  167 

meddle  with  her  at  all — I  can't  mak'  out  how  you  come 
to  be  acquainted ;  not  to  try  to  get  her  to  be  meetin'  you — 
and  if  you'd  a  seen  her  when  she  left,  you  would — when 
did  ye  meet? — last  grass,  wasn't  it? — your  word  as  a 
gentleman  not  to  be  writing  letters,  and  spyin'  after  her — 
I'll  have  her  back  at  once.     Back  she  shall  come!" 

"Give  her  up!"  cried  Kichard. 

"Ay,  that's  it!"  said  the  farmer.     "Give  her  up." 

The  young  man  checked  the  annihilation  of  time  that 
was  on  his  mouth. 

"You  sent  her  away  to  protect  her  from  me,  then?"  he 
said  savagely. 

"That's  not  quite  it,  but  that'll  do,"  rejoined  the  farmer. 

"Do  you  think  I  shall  harm  her,  sir?" 

"People  seem  to  think  she'll  harm  you,  young  gentle- 
man," the  farmer  said  with  some  irony. 

"Harm  me — she?     What  people?" 

"People  pretty  intimate  with  you,  sir." 

"What  people?  Who  spoke  of  us?"  Eichard  began  to 
scent  a  plot,  and  would  not  be  balked. 

'Well,  sir,  look  here,"  said  the  farmer.  "It  ain't  no 
secret,  and  if  it  be,  I  don't  see  why  I'm  to  keep  it.  It 
appears  your  education's  peculiar!"  The  farmer  drawled 
out  the  word  as  if  he  were  describing  the  figure  of  a  snake. 
"You  ain't  to  be  as  other  young  gentlemen.  All  the 
better!  You're  a  fine  bold  young  gentleman,  and  your 
father's  a  right  to  be  proud  of  ye.  Well,  sir — I'm  sure 
I  thank  him  for't — he  comes  to  hear  of  you  and  Luce,  and 
of  course  he  don't  want  nothin'  o'  that — more  do  LI 
meets  him  there!  What's  more  I  won't  have  nothin' 
of  it.  She  be  my  gal.  She  were  left  to  my  protection. 
And  she's  a  lady,  sir.  Let  me  tell  ye,  ye  won't  find  many 
on  'em  so  well  looked  to  as  she  be — my  Luce!  Well,  Mr. 
Fev'rel,  it's  you,  or  it's  her — one  of  ye  must  be  out  o' 
the  way.  So  we're  told.  And  Luce — I  do  believe  she's 
just  as  anxious  about  yer  education  as  yer  father — she 
says  she'll  go,  and  wouldn't  write,  and'd  break  it  off  for 
the  sake  o'  your  education.  And  she've  kep'  her  word, 
haven't  she? — She's  a  true'n.  What  she  says  she'll  do! — 
True  blue  she  be,  my  Luce!  So  now,  sir,  you  do  the 
same,  and  I'll  thank  ye." 

Any  one  who  has  tossed  a  sheet  of  paper  into  the  fire, 


1G8       TIIE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FKVKIM  I. 

and  seen  it  gradually  brown  with  heat,  and  strike  to 
flame,  may  conceive  the  mind  of  the  lover  as  he  listened 
to  this  speech. 

His  anger  did  no1  evaporate  in  words,  but  condensed 
and  sank  deep.  "Mr.  Blaize,"  he  said,  "this  is  very  kind 
of  the  people  you  allude  to,  but  I  am  of  an  ape  now  to 
think  and  act  for  myself — I  love  her,  sir!"  Hifl  whole 
countenance  changed,  and  the  muscles  of  bis  face  quivered. 

"Well!''  said  the  farmer,  appeasingly,  "we  all  do  at  your 
age — somebody  or  other.     It's  natural  I" 

"I  love  her!"  the  young  man  thundered  afresh,  too 
much  possessed  by  his  passion  to  have  a  sense  of  shame 
in  the  confession.  "Farmer!''  his  voice  fell  to  supplica- 
tion, "will  you  bring  her  back?" 

Farmer  Blaize  made  a  queer  face.  He  asked — what 
for?  and  where  was  the  promise  required!1 — But  was  not 
the  lover's  argument  conclusive?  He  said  he  loved  her! 
and  he  could  not  see  why  her  uncle  should  not  in  con- 
sequence immediately  send  for  her,  that  they  might  be 
together.  All  very  well,  quoth  the  fanner,  but  what's 
to  come  of  it? — What  was  to  come  of  it?  Why,  love,  and 
more  love!     And  a  bit  too  much!  the  farmer  added  grimly. 

"Then  you  refuse  me,  farmer,"  said  Richard.  "I  must 
look  to  you  for  keeping  her  away  from  me,  not  to — to — 
these  people.  You  will  not  have  her  back,  though  I  tell 
you  I  love  her  better  than  my  life?" 

Farmer  Blaize  now  had  to  answer  him  plainly,  he  had  a 
reason  and  an  objection  of  his  own.  And  it  was,  that  her 
character  was  at  stake,  and  God  knew  whether  she  herself 
might  not  be  in  danger.  He  spoke  with  a  kindly  candour, 
not  without  dignity.  He  complimented  Richard  person- 
ally, but  young  people  were  young  people;  baronets'  sons 
were  not  in  the  habit  of  marrying  farmers'  nieces. 

At  first  the  son  of  a  System  did  not  comprehend  him. 
When  he  did,  he  said:  "Farmer!  if  I  give  you  my  word  of 
honour,  as  I  hope  for  heaven,  to  marry  her  when  I  am 
of  age,  will  you  have  her  back?" 

He  was  so  fervid  that,  to  quiet  him.  the  farmer  only 
shook  his  head  doubtfully  at  the  bars  of  the  grate,  and  let 
his  chest  fall  slowly.  Richard  caught  what  seemed  to  him 
a  glimpse  of  encouragement  in  these  signs,  and  observed: 
"It's  not  because  you  object  to  me,  Mr.  Blaize?" 


CRISIS  IN  THE  APPLE-DISEASE  169 

The  farmer  signified  it  was  not  that. 

'Tt's  because  my  father  is  against  me,"  Richard  went 
on,  and  undertook  to  show  that  love  was  so  sacred  a  matter 
that  no  father  could  entirely  and  for  ever  resist  his  son's 
inclinations.  Argument  being  a  cool  field  where  the 
farmer  could  meet  and  match  him,  the  young  man  got 
on  the  tramroad  of  his  passion,  and  went  ahead.  He 
drew  pictures  of  Lucy,  of  her  truth,  and  his  own.  He 
took  leaps  from  life  to  death,  from  death  to  life,  mixing 
imprecations  and  prayers  in  a  torrent.  Perhaps  he  did 
move  the  stolid  old  Englishman  a  little,  he  was  so  vehe- 
ment, and  made  so  visible  a  sacrifice  of  his  pride. 

Farmer  Blaize  tried  to  pacify  him,  but  it  was  useless. 
His  jewel  he  must  have. 

The  farmer  stretched  out  his  hand  for  the  pipe  that 
allayeth  botheration.  "May  smoke  heer  now,"  he  said. 
"Not  when — somebody's  present.  Smoke  in  the  kitchen 
then.     Don't  mind  smell?" 

Richard  nodded,  and  watched  the  operations  while  the 
farmer  filled,  and  lighted,  and  began  to  puff,  as  if  his 
late  hung  on  them. 

"Who'd  a'  thought,  when  you  sat  over  there  once,  of 
its  comin'  to  this?"  ejaculated  the  farmer,  drawing  ease 
and  reflection  from  tobacco.  "You  didn't  think  much  of 
her  that  day,  young  gentleman !  I  introduced  ye.  Well ! 
things  comes  about.  Can't  you  wait  till  she  returns  in 
due  course,  now?" 

This  suggestion,  the  work  of  the  pipe,  did  but  bring  on 
him  another  torrent. 

"It's  queer,"  said  the  farmer,  putting  the  mouth  of  the 
pipe  to  his  wrinkled-up  temples. 

Richard  waited  for  him,  and  then  he  laid  down  the  pipe 
altogether,  as  no  aid  in  perplexity,  and  said,  after  leaning 
his  arm  on  the  table  and  staring  at  Richard  an  instant: 

"Look,  young  gentleman !  My  word's  gone.  I've  spoke 
it.  I've  given  'em  the  'surance  she  shan't  be  back  till  the 
Spring,  and  then  I'll  have  her,  and  then — well !  I  do 
hope,  for  more  reasons  than  one,  ye'll  both  be  wiser — 
I've  got  my  own  notions  about  her.  But  I  an't  the 
man  to  force  a  gal  to  marry  'gainst  her  inclines.  De- 
pend upon  it  I'm  not  your  enemy,  Mr.  Fev'rel.  You're 
jest  the  one  to  mak'  a  young  gal  proud.     So  wait, — and 


170      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

see.     That's  my  'dvice.     Jest  tak'  and  wait.     I've  no  more 
to  say." 

Richard's  impetuosity  had  made  him  really  afraid  of 
speaking  his  notions  concerning  the  projected  felicity  of 
young  Tom.  if  indeed  they  were  serious. 

The  fanner  repeated  that  lie  had  no  more  to  say; 
and  Richard,  with  "Wait  till  the  Spring!  Wait  till  the 
Spring!"'  dinning  despair  in  his  ears,  stood  up  to  depart. 
Farmer  Blaize  shook  his  slack  hand  in  a  friendly  way, 
and  called  out  at  the  door  for  young  Tom,  who,  dreading 
allusions  to  his  Folly,  did  not  appear.  A  maid  rushed 
by  Richard  in  the  passage,  and  slipped  something  into 
his  grasp,  which  fixed  on  it  without  further  consciousness 
than  that  of  touch.  The  mare  was  led  forth  by  the  Ban- 
tam. A  light  rain  was  falling  down  strong  warm  trusts, 
and  the  trees  were  noisy  in  the  night.  Fanner  Blaize 
requested  Richard  at  the  gate  to  give  him  his  hand,  and 
say  all  was  well.  He  liked  the  young  man  for  his  earnest- 
ness and  honest  outspeaking.  Richard  could  not  say  all 
was  well,  but  he  gave  his  hand,  and  knitted  it  to  the 
farmer's  in  a  sharp  squeeze,  when  he  got  upon  Cassandra, 
and  rode  into  the  tumult. 

A  calm,  clear  dawn  succeeded  the  roaring  West,  and 
threw  its  glowing  grey  image  on  the  waters  of  the  Abbey- 
lake.  Before  sunrise  Tom  Bakewell  was  abroad,  and 
met  the  missing  youth,  his  master,  jogging  Cassandra 
leisurely  along  the  Lobourne  park-road,  a  sorry  couple 
to  look  at.  Cassandra's  flanks  were  caked  with  mud,  her 
head  drooped:  all  that  was  in  her  had  been  taken  out 
by  that  wild  night.  On  what  heaths  and  heavy  fallows 
had  she  not  spent  her  noble  strength,  recklessly  fretting 
through  the  darkness! 

"Take  the  mare,"  said  Richard,  dismounting  and  pat- 
ting her  between  the  eyes.  "She's  done  up,  poor  old 
girl!  Look  to  her,  Tom,  and  then  come  to  me  in  my 
room." 

Tom  asked  no  questions. 

Throe  days  would  bring  the  anniversary  of  Richard's 
birth,  and  though  Tom  was  (dose,  the  condition  of  the 
mare,  and  the  young  gentleman's  strange  freak  in  riding 
her  out  all  night  becoming  known,  prepared  everybody 
at  Raynhain  for  the  usual  bad-luck  birthday,  the  prophets 


CEISIS  m  THE  APPLE-DISEASE  171 

of  which  were  full  of  sad  gratification.  Sir  Austin  had 
an  unpleasant  office  to  require  of  his  son ;  no  other  than 
that  of  humbly  begging  Benson's  pardon,  and  washing 
out  the  undue  blood  he  had  spilt  in  taking  his  Pound  of 
Flesh.  Heavy  Benson  was  told  to  anticipate  the  demand 
for  pardon,  and  practised  in  his  mind  the  most  melancholy 
Christian  deportment  he  could  assume  on  the  occasion. 
But  while  his  son  was  in  this  state,  Sir  Austin  considered 
that  he  would  hardly  be  brought  to  see  the  virtues  of  the 
act,  and  did  not  make  the  requisition  of  him,  and  heavy 
Benson  remained  drawn  up  solemnly  expectant  at  door- 
ways, and  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  a  Saurian  Carya- 
tid, wherever  he  could  get  a  step  in  advance  of  the 
young  man,  while  Richard  heedlessly  passed  him,  as  he 
passed  everybody  else,  his  head  bent  to  the  ground,  and 
his  legs  bearing  him  like  random  instruments  of  whose 
service  he  was  unconscious.  It  was  a  shock  to  Benson's 
implicit  belief  in  his  patron;  and  he  was  not  consoled  by 
the  philosophic  explanation,  "That  Good  in  a  strong  many- 
compounded  nature  is  of  slower  growth  than  any  other 
mortal  thing,  and  must  not  be  forced."  Damnatory  doc- 
trines best  pleased  Benson.  He  was  ready  to  pardon, 
as  a  Christian  should,  but  he  did  want  his  enemy  before 
him  on  his  knees.  And  now,  though  the  Saurian  Eye 
saw  more  than  all  the  other  eyes  in  the  house,  and  saw- 
that  there  was  matter  in  hand  between  Tom  and  his 
master  to  breed  exceeding  discomposure  to  the  System, 
Benson,  as  he  had  not  received  his  indemnity,  and  did 
not  wish  to  encounter  fresh  perils  for  nothing,  held  his 
peace. 

Sir  Austin  partly  divined  what  was  going  on  in  the 
breast  of  his  son,  without  conceiving  the  depths  of  dis- 
trust his  son  cherished  or  quite  measuring  the  intensity 
of  the  passion  that  consumed  him.  He  was  very  kind  and 
tender  with  him.  Like  a  cunning  physician  who  has, 
nevertheless,  overlooked  the  change  in  the  disease  super- 
induced by  one  false  dose,  he  meditated  his  prescriptions 
carefully  and  confidently,  sure  that  he  knew  the  case,  and 
was  a  match  for  it.  He  decreed  that  Richard's  erratic 
behaviour  should  pass  unnoticed.  Two  days_  before  the 
birthday,  he  asked  him  whether  he  would  object  to  hav- 
ing  company?     To   which   Richard   said:    "Have   whom 


172       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

you  will,  sir."  'Flic  preparation  fur  festivity  commenced 
accordingly. 

On  the  birthday  eve  he  dined  with  the  rest.  Lady 
Blandish  was  I  here,  and  sat  penitently  at  his  right. 
Hippias  prognosticated  certain  indigestion  for  himself  on 
the  morrow.  The  Eighteenth  Century  wondered  whether 
she  should  live  to  see  another  birthday.  Adrian  drank 
the  two-years'  distant  term  of  his  tutorship,  and  Algernon 
went  over  the  list  of  the  Lobourno  men  who  would  cope 
with  Bursley  on  the  morrow.  Sir  Austin  gave  ear  and 
a  word  to  all,  keeping  his  mental  eye  for  his  son.  To 
please  Lady  Blandish  also,  Adrian  ventured  to  make 
trifling  jokes  about  London's  Mrs.  Grandison;  jokes  deli- 
cately not  decent,  but  so  delicately  so,  that  it  was  not 
decent  to  perceive  it. 

After  dinner  Richard  left  them.  Nothing  more  than 
commonly  peculiar  was  observed  about  him,  beyond  the 
excessive  glitter  of  his  eyes,  but  the  baronet  said,  ''Yes, 
yes!  that  will  pass."  He  and  Adrian,  and  Lady  Blandish, 
took  tea  in  the  library,  and  sat  till  a  late  hour  dis- 
cussing casuistries  relating  mostly  to  the  Apple-disease. 
Converse  very  amusing  to  the  wise  youth,  who  could 
suggest  to  the  two  chaste  minds  situations  of  the  shadiest 
character,  with  the  air  of  a  seeker  after  truth,  and  lead 
them,  unsuspecting,  where  they  dared  not  look  about 
them.  The  Aphorist  had  elated  the  heart  of  his  constant 
fair  worshipper  with  a  newly  rounded  if  not  newly  con- 
ceived sentence,  when  they  became  aware  that  they  were 
four.  Heavy  Benson  stood  among  them.  He  said  he 
had  knocked,  but  received  no  answer.  There  was,  how- 
ever, a  vestige  of  surprise  and  dissatisfaction  on  his  face 
beholding  Adrian  of  the  company,  which  had  not  quite 
worn  away,  and  gave  place,  when  it  did  vanish,  to  an 
aspect  of  flabby  severity. 

"Well,  Benson?  well?"  said  the  baronet. 

The  unmoving  man  replied:  "If  you  please,  Sir  Austin 
—Mr.  Richard!" 

"Well!" 

"He's  out!" 
'Well  ?" 

"With  Bakewell !" 
"Well  ?" 


CEISIS  IN  THE  APPLE-DISEASE  173 

"And  a  carpet-bag!" 

The  carpet-bag  might  be  supposed  to  contain  that  funny 
thing  called  a  young  hero's  romance  in  the  making. 

Out  Kichard  was,  and  with  a  carpet-bag,  which  Tom 
Bakewell  carried.  He  was  on  the  road  to  Bellingham, 
under  heavy  rain,  hasting  like  an  escaped  captive,  wild 
with  joy,  while  Tom  shook  his  skin,  and  grunted  at  his 
discomforts.  The  mail  train  was  to  be  caught  at  Bell- 
ingham. He  knew  where  to  find  her  now,  through  the 
intervention  of  Miss  Davenport,  and  thither  he  was  fly- 
ing, an  arrow  loosed  from  the  bow:  thither,  in  spite  of 
fathers  and  friends  and  plotters,  to  claim  her,  and  take 
her,  and  stand  with  her  against  the  world. 

They  were  both  thoroughly  wet  when  they  entered 
Bellingham,  and  Tom's  visions  were  of  hot  drinks.  He 
hinted  the  necessity  for  inward  consolation  to  his  master, 
who  could  answer  nothing  but  "Tom!  Tom!  I  shall  see 
her  to-morrow !"  It  was  bad — travelling  in  the  wet,  Tom 
hinted  again,  to  provoke  the  same  insane  outcry,  and  have 
his  arm  seized  and  furiously  shaken  into  the  bargain. 
Passing  the  principal  inn  of  the  place,  Tom  spoke  plainly 
for  brandy. 

"No!"  cried  Richard,  "there's  not  a  moment  to  be 
lost!"  and  as  he  said  it,  he  reeled,  and  fell  against  Tom, 
muttering  indistinctly  of  faintness,  and  that  there  was 
no  time  to  lose.  Tom  lifted  him  in  his  arms,  and  got 
admission  to  the  inn.  Brandy,  the  country's  specific,  was 
advised  by  host  and  hostess,  and  forced  into  his  mouth, 
reviving  him  sufficiently  to  cry  out,  "Tom!  the  bell's 
ringing:  we  shall  be  late,"  after  which  he  fell  back  in- 
sensible on  the  sofa  where  they  had  stretched  him.  Ex- 
citement of  blood  and  brain  had  done  its  work  upon  him. 
The  youth  suffered  them  to  undress  him  and  put  him 
to  bed,  and  there  he  lay,  forgetful  even  of  love;  a 
drowned  weed  borne  onward  by  the  tide  of  the  hours. 
There  his  father  found  him. 

Was  the  Scientific  Humanist  remorseful?  He  had 
looked  forward  to  such  a  crisis  as  that  point  in  the 
disease  his  son  was  the  victim  of,  when  the  body  would 
fail  and  give  the  spirit  calm  to  conquer  the  malady, 
knowing  very  well  that  the  seeds  of  the  evil  were  not 
of  the  spirit.     Moreover,  to  see  him  and  have  him  was 


174       THE  OKDKAL  OF   RICHARD   FEVEBEL 

a  repose  after  the  alarm  Benson  had  sounded.  "Mark!" 
he  said  to  Lady  Blandish,  "when  he  recovers  he  will  not 
cart'  for  her." 

The  lady  had  accompanied  him  to  the  Bellingham  inn 
on  first,  hearing  of  Richard's  seizure. 

"What  an  iron  man  you  can  he,"  she  exclaimed, 
smothering  her  intuitions.  She  was  for  giving  the  boy 
his  bauble;  promising  it  him,  at  least,  if  he  would  only 
get  well  and  be  the  bright  flower  of  promise  he  once  was. 

"Can  you  look  on  him,"  she  pleaded,  "can  you  look  on 
him  and  persevere?" 

It  was  a  hard  Bight  for  this  man  who  loved  his  son  so 
deeply.  The  youth  lay  in  his  strange  hed,  straight  and 
motionless,  with  fever  on  his  cheeks,  and  altered  eyes. 

Old  Dr.  Clifford  of  Lobourne  was  the  medical  attendant, 
who,  with  head-shaking,  and  gathering  "1"  lips,  and  rem- 
iniscences of  ancient  arguments,  guaranteed  to  do  all 
that  leech  could  do  in  the  matter.  The  old  doctor  did 
admit  that  Richard's  constitution  was  admirable,  and 
answered  to  his  prescriptions  like  a  piano  to  the  musician. 
"But,"  he  said  at  a  family  consultation,  for  Sir  Austin 
had  told  him  how  it  stood  with  the  young  man,  "drugs 
are  not  much  in  cases  of  this  sort.  Change!  That's 
what's  wanted,  and  as  soon  as  may  be.  Distraction ! 
He  ought  to  see  the  world,  and  know  what  he  is  made 
of.     It's  no  use  my  talking,   I  know,"   added  the  doctor. 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Sir  Austin,  "I  am  quite  of 
your  persuasion.     And  the  world  he  shall  see — now." 

"We  have  dipped  him  in  Styx,  you  know,  doctor," 
Adrian  remarked. 

"But,  doctor,"  said  Lady  Blandish,  "have  you  known 
a  case  of  this  sort  before?" 

"Never,  my  lady,"  said  the  doctor,  "they're  not  com- 
mon in  these  parts.  Country  people  are  tolerably  healthy- 
minded." 

"But  people — and  country  people — have  died  for  iove, 
doctor?" 

The  doctor  had   oot  met  any  of  them. 

"Men,  or  women  8"  inquired  the  baronet. 

Lady  Blandish  believed  mostly  women. 

"Ask  the  doctor  whether  they  were  healthy-minded 
women,"  said  the  baronet.     "No!  you  are  both  looking  at 


THE  SPRING  AND  AUTUMN  PRIMROSE     175 

th6  wrong  end.  Between  a  highly-cultured  being,  and 
an  emotionless  animal,  there  is  all  the  difference  in  the 
world.  But  of  the  two,  the  doctor  is  nearer  the  truth. 
The  healthy  nature  is  pretty  safe.  If  he  allowed  for 
organization  he  would  be  right  altogether.  To  feel,  but 
not  to  feel  to  excess,  that  is  the  problem." 

"If  I  can't  have  the  one  I  chose, 
To  some  fresh  maid  I   will   propose," 

Adrian  hummed  a  country  ballad. 


CHAPTER    XXIV 
OF  THE  SPRING  PRIMROSE   AND  THE  AUTUMNAL 

When  the  young  Experiment  again  knew  the  hours  that 
rolled  him  onward,  he  was  in  his  own  room  at  Raynham. 
Nothing  had  changed:  only  a  strong  fist  had  knocked  him 
down  and  stunned  him,  and  he  opened  his  eyes  to  a  grey 
world:  he  had  forgotten  what  he  lived  for.  He  was  weak 
and  thin,  and  with  a  pale  memory  of  things.  His  func- 
tions were  the  same,  everything  surrounding  him  was  the 
same:  he  looked  upon  the  old  blue  hills,  the  far-lying 
fallows,  the  river,  and  the  woods:  he  knew  them,  they 
seemed  to  have  lost  recollection  of  him.  Nor  could  he  find 
in  familiar  human  faces  the  secret  of  intimacy  of  hereto- 
fore. They  were  the  same  faces:  they  nodded  and  smiled 
to  him.  What  was  lost  he  could  not  tell.  Something  had 
been  knocked  out  of  him !  He  was  sensible  of  his  father's 
sweetness  of  manner,  and  he  was  grieved  that  he  could 
not  reply  to  it,  for  every  sense  of  shame  and  reproach  had 
strangely  gone.  He  felt  very  useless.  In  place  of  the 
fiery  love  for  one,  he  now  bore  about  a  cold  charity  to 
all/ 

Thus  in  the  heart  of  the  young  man  died  the  Spring 
Primrose,  and  while  it  died  another  heart  was  pushing 
forth  the  Primrose  of  Autumn. 

The  wonderful  change  in  Richard,  and  the  wisdom  of 
her  admirer,  now  positively  proved,  were  exciting  matters 


176      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD   PEVEREL 

to    Lady    Blandish.      She   was    rebuked    for  certain    little 
rebellious  fancies  concerning  him  that  bad  come  across 

ber  enslaved  mind  from  time  to  time.  For  was  be  n<>t 
almost  a  prophel  1  It  distressed  the  sentimental  lady  thai 
a  love  like  Richard's  could  pass  off  in  mere  smoke,  and 
words  such  as  she  bad  beard  him  speak  in  Abbey-wood 
resolve  to  emptiness.  Xay,  it  humiliated  ber  personally, 
and  the  baronet's  shrewd  prognostication  humiliated  ber. 
For  how  should  he  know,  and  dare  to  say,  that  love  was 
a  thing-  of  the  dust  that  could  be  trodden  out  under  the 
heel  of  science!1  1  Jut  he  had  said  so,  and  he  had  proved 
himself  right.  She  heard  with  wonderment  that  Richard 
of  his  own  accord  had  spoken  to  bis  father  of  the  folly 
he  had  been  guilty  of,  and  bad  begged  bis  pardon.  The 
baronet  told  her  this,  adding  that  the  youth  had  done  it 
in  a  cold  unwavering  way,  without  a  movement  of  his 
features:  bad  evidently  done  it  to  throw  off  the  burden 
of  the  duty  he  had  conceived.  He  had  thought  himself 
bound  to  acknowledge  that  he  had  been  the  Foolish  Young 
Fellow,  wishing,  possibly,  to  abjure  the  fact  by  an  act  of 
penance.  He  had  also  given  satisfaction  to  Benson,  and 
was  become  a  renovated  peaceful  spirit,  whose  main  object 
appeared  to  be  to  get  up  his  physical  strength  by  exercise 
and  no  expenditure  of  speech. 

In  her  company  he  was  composed  and  courteous;  even 
when  they  were  alone  together,  he  did  not  exhibit  a  trace 
of  melancholy.  Sober  he  seemed,  as  one  who  has  recovered 
from  a  drunkenness  and  has  determined  to  drink  no  more. 
The  idea  struck  her  that  he  might  be  playing  a  part,  but 
Tom  Bakewell,  in  a  private  conversation  they  had,  in- 
formed her  that  he  had  received  an  order  from  his  young 
master,  one  day  while  boxing  with  him,  not  to  mention 
the  young  lady's  name  to  him  as  long  as  he  lived;  and 
Tom  could  only  suppose1  that  she  had  offended  him.  Theo- 
retically wise  Lady  Blandish  had  always  thought  the 
baronet;  she  was  unprepared  to  find  him  thus  practically 
sagacious.  She  fell  many  degrees;  she  wanted  something 
to  cling  to;  so  she  clung  to  the  man  who  struck  ber  low. 
Love,  then,  was  earthly;  its  depth  could  be  probed  by 
science!  A  man  lived  who  could  measure1  it  from  end 
to  end;  foretell  its  term:  handle  the  young  cherub  as  were 
he  a  shot  owl!     We  who  have  flown  into  cousinship  with 


THE  SPRING  AND  AUTUMN  PRIMROSE     177 

the  empyrean,  and  disported  among  immortal  hosts,  our 
base  birth  as  a  child  of  Time  is  made  bare  to  us!— our 
wings  are  cut !  Oh,  then,  if  science  is  this  victorious 
enemy  of  love,  let  us  love  science!  was  the  logic  of  the 
lady's  heart;  and  secretly  cherishing  the  assurance  that 
she  should  confute  him  yet,  and  prove  him  utterly  wrong, 
she  gave  him  the  fruits  of  present  success,  as  it  is  a  habit 
of  women  to  do;  involuntarily  partly.  The  fires  took  hold 
of  her.  She  felt  soft  emotions  such  as  a  girl  feels,  and 
they  flattered  her.  It  was  like  youth  coming  back.  _  Pure 
women  have  a  second  youth.  The  Autumn  primrose 
flourished. 

We  are  advised  by  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip  that — 

''The  ways  of  women,  which  are  Involution,  and  their 
practices,  which  are  Opposition,  are  generally  best  hit 
upon  by  guess  work,  and  a  bold  word;" — it  being  impos- 
sible to  track  them  and  hunt  them  down  in  the  ordinary 
style. 

So  that  we  may  not  ourselves  become  involved  and  op- 
posed, let  us  each  of  us  venture  a  guess  and  say  a  bold 
word  as  to  how  it  came  that  the  lady,  who  trusted  love  to 
be  eternal,  grovelled  to  him  that  shattered  her  tender  faith, 
and  loved  him. 

Hitherto  it  had  been  simply  a  sentimental  dalliance,  and 
gossips  had  maligned  the  lady.  Just  when  the  gossips 
grew  tired  of  their  slander,  and  inclined  to  look  upon  her 
charitably,  she  set  about  to  deserve  every  word  they  had 
said  of  her;  which  may  instruct  us,  if  you  please,  that 
gossips  have  only  to  persist  in  lying  to  be  crowned  with 
verity,  or  that  one  has  only  to  endure  evil  mouths  for  a 
period  to  gain  impunity.  She  was  always  at  the  Abbey 
now.  She  was  much  closeted  with  the  baronet.  It  seemed 
to  be  understood  that  she  had  taken  Mrs.  Doria's  place. 
Benson  in  his  misogynic  soul  perceived  that  she  was  tak- 
ing Lady  Feverel's:  but  any  report  circulated  by  Benson 
was  sure  to  meet  discredit,  and  drew  the  gossips  upon 
himself;  which  made  his  meditations  tragic.  No  sooner 
was  one  woman  defeated  than  another  took  the  field! 
The  object  of  the  System  was  no  sooner  safe  than  its 
great  author  was  in  danger! 

"I  can't  think  what  has  come  to  Benson,"  he  said  to 
Adrian. 


178       THE  ORDEAL  O!     KK'IIARI)   FEVEREL 

"He  seems  to  have  received  a  fresh  legacy  of  several 
pounds  of  lead,"  returned  the  wise  youth,  and  imitating 
Dr.  Clifford's  manner.  "Change  is  what  he  wants!  dis- 
traction! send  him  to  Wales  t'.ir  a  month,  sir,  and  let  Rich- 
ard go  with  him.  The.  two  victims  of  woman  may  do  each 
other  good." 

"Unfortunately  I  can't  do  without  him,"  said  the  bar- 
onet. 

"Then  we  must  continue  to  have  him  on  our  shoulders 
all  day,  and  on  our  chests  all  night  !"    Adrian  ejaculated. 

"I  think  while  he  preserves  this  aspect  we  won't  have 
him  at  the  dinner-table,"  said  the  baronet. 

Adrian  thought  that  would  he  a  relied'  to  their  diges- 
tions; and  added:  "You  know,  sir,  what  he  says?" 

Receiving  a  negative,  Adrian  delicately  explained  to 
him  that  Benson's  excessive  ponderosity  of  demeanour 
was  caused  by  anxiety  for  the  safety  of  his  master. 

"You  must  pardon  a  faithful  fool,  sir,"  he  continued, 
for  the  baronet  became  red.  and  exclaimed: 

"His  stupidity  is  past  belief!  1  have*  absolutely  to  bolt 
my  study-door  against  him." 

Adrian  at  once  beheld  a  charming  scene  in  the  interior 
of  the  study,  not  unlike  one  that.  Benson  had  visually  wit- 
nessed. For,  like  a  wary  prophet,  Benson,  that  he  might 
have  warrant  for  what  he  foretold  of  the  future,  had  a 
care  to  spy  upon  the  present:  warned  haply  by  Tin: 
Pilg-rim's  SCRIP,  of  which  he  was  a  diligent  reader,  and 
which  says,  rather  emphatically:  "Could  we  see  Time's 
full  face,  we  were  wise  of  him."  Now  to  see  Time's  full 
face,  it  is  sometimes  necessary  to  look  through  keyhole^, 
the  veteran  having  a  trick  of  smiling  peace  to  you  on  one 
cheek  and  grimacing  confusion  on  the  other  behind  the 
curtain.  Decency  and  a  sense  of  honour  restrain  most 
of  us  from  being  thus  wise  and  miserable  for  ever.  Ben- 
son's excuse  was  that  he  believed  in  his  master,  who  was 
menaced.  And  moreover,  notwithstanding  his  previous 
tribulation,  to  spy  upon  Cupid  was  sweet  to  him.  So 
he  peeped,  and  he  saw  a  sight.,  lie  saw  Time's  full  face; 
or,  in  other  words,  he  saw  the  wiles  of  woman  and  the 
weakness  of  man:  which  is  our  history,  as  Benson  would 
have  written  it,  and  a  great  many  poets  and  philosophers 
have  written  it 


THE  SPRING  AND  AUTUMN  PRIMROSE     179 

Yet  it  was  but  the  plucking  of  the  Autumn  primrose 
that  Benson  had  seen:  a  somewhat  different  operation 
from  the  plucking  of  the  Spring  one :  very  innocent !  Our 
staid  elderly  sister  has  paler  blood,  and  has,  or  thinks 
she  has,  a  reason  or  two  about  the  roots.  She  is  not  all 
instinct.  "For  this  high  cause,  and  for  that  I  know  men, 
and  know  him  to  be  the  flower  of  men,  I  give  myself  to 
him!"  She  makes  that  lofty  inward  exclamation  while 
the  hand  is  detaching  her  from  the  roots.  Even  so  strong 
a  self-justification  she  requires.  She  has  not  that  blind 
glory  in  excess  which  her  younger  sister  can  gild  the 
longest  leap  with.  And  if,  moth-like,  she  desires  the  star, 
she  is  nervously  cautious  of  candles.  Hence  her  circles 
about  the  dangerous  human  flame  are  wide  and  shy.  She 
must  be  drawn  nearer  and  nearer  by  a  fresh  reason.  She 
loves  to  sentimentalize.  Lady  Blandish  had  been  senti- 
mentalizing for  ten  years.  She  would  have  preferred  to 
pursue  the  game.  The  dark-eyed  dame  was  pleased  with 
her  smooth  life  and  the  soft  excitement  that  did  not 
ruffle  it.     Not  willingly  did  she  let  herself  be  won. 

"Sentimentalists,"  says  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip,  "are  they 
who  seek  to  enjoy  without  incurring  the  Immense  Debtor- 
ship  for  a  thing  done." 

"It  is,"  the  writer  says  of  Sentimentalism  elsewhere,  "a 
happy  pastime  and  an  important  science  to  the  timid,  the 
idle,  and  the  heartless;  but  a  damning  one  to  them  who 
have  anything  to  forfeit." 

However,  one  who  could  set  down  the  dying  for  love,  as 
a  sentimentalism,  can  hardly  be  accepted  as  a  clear  author- 
ity. Assuredly  he  was  not  one  to  avoid  the  incurring  of 
the  immense  debtorship  in  any  way:  but  he  was  a  bonds- 
man still  to  the  woman  who  had  forsaken  him,  and  a 
spoken  word  would  have  made  it  seem  his  duty  to  face  that 
public  scandal  which  was  the  last  evil  to  him.  What  had 
so  horrified  the  virtuous  Benson,  Richard  had  already  be- 
held in  Daphne's  Bower;  a  simple  kissing  of  the  fair 
white  hand !  Doubtless  the  keyhole  somehow  added  to 
Benson's  horror.  The  two  similar  performances,  so  very 
innocent,  had  wondrous  opposite  consequences.  The  first 
kindled  Richard  to  adore  Woman;  the  second  destroyed 
Benson's  faith  in  Man.  But  Lady  Blandish  knew  the 
difference  between  the  two.     She  understood  why  the  bar- 


180       THE  OEDEAL  OK   KICIIAKD   KKVEREL 

onet  diil  not  speak;  excused,  and  respected  him  for  it. 
She  was  content,  since  she  must  love,  to  love  humbly,  and 
she  had,  besides,  her  pity  for  his  sorrows  to  comfort  her. 
A  hundred  t'ir-li  reasons  for  loving  him  arose  and  multi- 
plied every  day.  He  read  to  her  the  secret  book  in  his 
own  handwriting,  composed  for  Kichard's  Marriage 
Guide:  containing  Advice  and  Directions  to  a  Young 
Husband,  full  of  the  most  tender  wisdom  and  delicacy; 
so  she  thought ;  nay,  not  wanting  in  poetry,  though  neither 
rhymed  nor  measured.  He  expounded  to  her  the  dis- 
tinctive character  of  the  divers  ages  of  love,  giving  the 
palm  to  the  flower  she  put  forth,  over  that  of  Spring,  or 
the  Summer  rose.  And  while  they  sat  and  talked,  "My 
wound  has  healed,"  he  said.  "How?"  she  asked.  "At 
the  fountain  of  your  eyes,"  he  replied,  and  drew  the  joy 
of  new  life  from  her  blushes,  without  incurring  further 
debtorship  for  a  thing  done. 


CHAPTER    XXV 
IN   WHICH   THE   HERO   TAKES    A   STEP 

Let  it  be  some  apology  for  the  damage  caused  by  the 
careering  hero,  and  a  consolation  to  the  quiet  wretches, 
dragged  along  with  him  at  his  chariot-wheels,  that  he  is 
generally  the  last  to  know  when  he  has  made  an  actual 
start ;  such  a  mere  creature  is  he,  like  the  rest  of  us,  albeit 
the  head  of  our  fates.  By  this  you  perceive  the  true  hero, 
whether  he  be  a  prince  or  a  pot-boy,  that  he  does  not  plot; 
Fortune  does  all  for  him.  He  may  be  compared  to  one  to 
whom,  in  an  electric  circle,  it  is  given  to  carry  the  batter//. 
We  caper  and  grimace  at  his  will ;  yet  not  his  the  will,  not 
his  the  power.  'Tis  all  Fortune's,  whose  puppet  he  is.  She 
deals  her  dispensations  through  him.  Yea,  though  our 
capers  be  never  so  comical,  he  laughs  not.  Intent  upon 
his  own  business,  the  true  hero  asks  little  services  of  us 
here  and  there;  thinks  it  quite  natural  that  they  should 
be  acceded  to,  and  sees  nothing  ridiculous  in  the  lamen- 
table contortions  we  must  go  through  to  fulfil  them. 
Probably  he  is  the  elect  of  Fortune,  because  of  that  notablo 


THE  HERO   TAKES  A  STEP  181 

faculty  of  being  intent  upon  his  own  business :  "Which. 
is,"  says  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip,  "with  men  to  be  valued 
equal  to  that  force  which  in  water  makes  a  stream."  This 
prelude  was  necessary  to  the  present  chapter  of  Richard's 
history. 

It  happened  that  in  the  turn  of  the  year,  and  while  old 
earth  was  busy  with  her  flowers,  the  fresh  wind  blew,  the 
little  bird  sang,  and  Hippias  Feverel,  the  Dyspepsy, 
amazed,  felt  the  Spring  move  within  him.  He  communi- 
cated his  delightful  new  sensations  to  the  baronet,  his 
brother,  whose  constant  exclamation  with  regard  to  him, 
was :  "Poor  Hippias !  All  his  machinery  is  bare !"  and 
had  no  hope  that  he  would  ever  be  in  a  condition  to  defend 
it  from  view.  Nevertheless  Hippias  had  that  hope,  and 
so  he  told  his  brother,  making  great  exposure  of  his  ma- 
chinery to  effect  the  explanation.  He  spoke  of  all  his 
physical  experiences  exultingly,  and  with  wonder.  The 
achievement  of  common  efforts,  not  usually  blazoned,  he 
celebrated  as  triumphs,  and,  of  course,  had  Adrian  on  his 
back  very  quickly.  But  he  could  bear  him,  or  anything, 
now.  It  was  such  ineffable  relief  to  find  himself  looking 
out  upon  the  world  of  mortals  instead  of  into  the  black 
phantasmal  abysses  of  his  own  complicated  frightful 
structure.  "My  mind  doesn't  so  much  seem  to  haunt 
itself,  now,"  said  Hippias,  nodding  shortly  and  peering 
out  of  intense  puckers  to  convey  a  glimpse  of  what  hellish 
sufferings  his  had  been:  "I  feel  as  if  I  had  come  above- 
ground." 

A  poor  Dyspepsy  may  talk  as  he  will,  but  he  is  the  one 
who  never  gets  sympathy,  or  experiences  compassion :  and 
it  is  he  whose  groaning  petitions  for  charity  do  at  last 
rout  that  Christian  virtue.  Lady  Blandish,  a  charitable 
soul,  could  not  listen  to  Hippias,  though  she  had  a  heart 
for  little  mice  and  flies,  and  Sir  Austin  had  also  small 
patience  with  his  brother's  gleam  of  health,  which  was 
just  enough  to  make  his  disease  visible.  He  remembered 
his  early  follies  and  excesses,  and  bent  his  ear  to  him  as 
one  man  does  to  another  who  complains  of  having  to  pay 
a  debt  legally  incurred. 

"I  think,"  said  Adrian,  seeing  how  the  communications 
of  Hippias  were  received,  "that  when  our  Nemesis  takes 


L82      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

lodgings  in  the  stomach,  it's  best  to  act  the  Spartan,  smilo 
hard,  and  be  silent." 

Richard  alone  was  decently  kind  to  Hippias;  whether 
from  opposition,  or  real  affection,  could  not  be  said,  as  the 
young  man  was  mysterious.  He  advised  his  uncle  to  take 
exercise,  walked  with  him,  cultivated  cheerful  impressions 
in  him,  and  pointed  out  innocent  pursuits.  He  made  Hip- 
pias visit  with  him  some  of  the  poor  old  folk  of  the  village, 
who  bewailed  the  loss  of  his  cousin  Austin  Wentworth, 
and  did  his  best  to  waken  him  up,  and  give  the  outer  world 
a  stronger  hold  on  him.  He  succeeded  in  nothing  but  in 
winning  his  uncle's  gratitude.  The  season  bloomed  scarce 
longer  than  a  week  for  Hippias^  and  then  began  to  lan- 
guish. The-  poor  Dyspepsy's  eager  grasp  at  beatification 
relaxed :  he  went  underground  again.  He  announced  that 
he  felt  "spongy  things" — one  of  the  more  constant  throes 
of  his  malady.  His  bitter  face  recurred:  he  chewed  the 
cud  of  horrid  hallucinations.  He  told  Richard  he  must 
give  up  going  about  with-  him:  people  telling  of  their 
ailments  made  him  so  uncomfortable — the  birds  were  so 
noisy,  pairing — the  rude  bare  soil  sickened  him. 

Richard  treated  him  with  a  gravity  equal  to  his  father's. 
He  asked  what  the  doctors  said. 

"Oh!  the  doctors!"  cried  Hippias  with  vehement  scepti- 
cism. "No  man  of  sense  believes  in  medicine  for  chronic 
disorder.  Do  you  happen  to  have  heard  of  any  new  remedy 
then,  Richard?  No?  They  advertise  a  great  many  cures 
for  indigestion,  I  assure  you,  my  dear  boy.  I  wonder 
whether  one  can  rely  upon  the  authenticity  of  those  signa- 
tures? I  see  no  reason  why  there  should  be  no  cure  for 
such  a  disease? — Eh?  And  it's  just  one  of  the  things  a 
quack,  as  they  call  them,  would  hit  upon  sooner  than  one 
who  is  in  the  beaten  track.  Do  you  know,  Richard,  my 
dear  boy,  I've  often  thought  that  if  we  could  by  any  means 
appropriate  to  our  use  some  of  the  extraordinary  digestive 
power  that  a  boa  constrictor  has  in  his  gastric  juices, 
there  is  really  no  manner  of  reason  why  we  should  not 
comfortably  dispose  of  as  much  of  an  ox  as  our  stomachs 
will  hold,  and  one  might  eat  French  dishes  without  the 
wretchedness  of  thinking  what's  to  follow.  And  this 
makes  me  think  that  those  fellows  may,  after  all,  have 
got  some  truth  in  them:  some  secret  that,  of  course,  they 


THE  HEKO   TAKES  A  STEP  133 

require  to  be  paid  for.  We  distrust  each  other  in  this 
world  too  much,  Eichard.  I've  felt  inclined  once  or 
twice — but  it's  absurd! — If  it  only  alleviated  a  few  of  my 
sufferings  I  should  be  satisfied.  I've  no  hesitation  in 
saying  that  I  should  be  quite  satisfied  if  it  only  did 
away  with  one  or  two,  and  left  me  free  to  eat  and  drink 
as  other  people  do.  Not  that  I  mean  to  try  them.  It's 
only  a  fancy — Eh  ?  What  a  thing  health  is,  my  dear  boy ! 
Ah!  if  I  were  like  you!     I  was  in  love  once!" 

"Were  you !"  said  Richard,  coolly  regarding  him. 

"I've  forgotten  what  I  felt!"  Hippias  sighed.  "You've 
very  much  improved,  my  dear  boy." 

"So  people  say,"  quoth  Richard. 

Hippias  looked  at  him  anxiously:  "If  I  go  to  town  and 
get  the  doctor's  opinion  about  trying  a  new  course — Eh, 
Richard  ?  will  you  come  with  me  ?  I  should  like  your  com- 
pany. We  could  see  London  together,  you  know.  Enjoy 
ourselves,"  and  Hippias  rubbed  his  hands. 

Richard  smiled  at  the  feeble  glimmer  of  enjoyment 
promised  by  his  uncle's  eyes,  and  said  he  thought  it  better 
they  should  stay  where  they  were; — an  answer  that  might 
mean  anything.  Hippias  immediately  became  possessed 
by  the  beguiling  project.  He  went  to  the  baronet,  and  put 
the  matter  before  him,  instancing  doctors  as  the  object 
of  his  journey,  not  quacks,  of  course ;  and  requesting  leave 
to  take  Richard.  Sir  Austin  was  getting  uneasy  about 
his  son's  manner.  It  was  not  natural.  His  heart  seemed 
to  be  frozen :  he  had  no  confidences :  he  appeared  to  have  no 
ambition — to  have  lost  the  virtues  of  youth  with  the 
poison  that  had  passed  out  of  him.  He  was  disposed  to 
try  what  effect  a  little  travelling  might  have  on  him,  and 
had  himself  once  or  twice  hinted  to  Richard  that  it  would 
be  good  for  him  to  move  about,  the  young  man  quietly 
replying  that  he  did  not  wish  to  quit  Raynham  at  all, 
which  was  too  strict  a  fulfilment  of  his  father's  original 
views  in  educating  him  there  entirely.  On  the  day  that 
Hippias  made  his  proposal,  Adrian,  seconded  by  Lady 
Blandish,  also  made  one.  The  sweet  Spring  season  stirred 
in  Adrian  as  well  as  in  others:  not  to  pastoral  measures: 
to  the  joys  of  the  operatic  world  and  bravura  glories.  He 
also  suggested  that  it  would  be  advisable  to  carry  Richard 
to  town  for  a  term,  and  let  him  know  his  position,  and 


L84       THE  OKI)  K  A  I.  OF  RICHARD  FEVER  EL 

some  freedom.  Sir  Austin  weighed  the  two  proposals. 
He  was  pretty  certain  that  Riehard's  passion  was  con- 
sumed, and  thai  the  youth  was  now  only  under  the  burden 
of  its  ashes.  II'-  had  found  against  Ids  heart,  at  the  Bell- 
inghftm  inn:  a  great  lock  of  golden  hair.  He  had  taken 
it,  and  tho  lover,  after  feeling  about  for  it  with  faint 
hands,  never  asked  for  it.  This  precious  lock  (Miss 
Davenport  had  thrust  it  into  his  hand  at  Belthorpe  as 
Lucy's  last  gift),  what  sighs  and  tears  it  had  weathered! 
The  baronet  laid  it  in  Richard's  sight  one  day,  and  be- 
held him  take  it  up,  turn  it  over,  and  drop  it  down  again 
calmly,  as  if  he  were  handling  any  common  curiosity. 
It  pacified  him  on  that  score.  The  young  man's  love  was 
dead.  Dr.  Clifford  said  rightly:  he  wanted  distractions. 
The  baronet  determined  that  Richard  should  go.  Hippias 
and  Adrian  then  pressed  their  several  suits  as  to  which 
should  have  him.  Hippias,  when  ho  could  forget  himself, 
did  not  lack  sense.  He  observed  that  Adrian  was  not  at 
present  a  proper  companion  for  Richard,  and  would  teach 
him  to  look  on  life  from  the  false  point. 

"You  don't  understand  a  young  philosopher,"  said  the 
baronet. 

"A  young  philosopher's  an  old  fool!"  returned  Hippias, 
not  thinking  that  his  growl  had  begotten  a  phrase. 

His  brother  smiled  with  gratification,  and  applauded 
him  loudly:  "Excellent!  worthy  of  your  best  days!  You're 
wrong,  though,  in  applying  it  to  Adrian.  He  has  never 
been  precocious.  All  he  has  done  has  been  to  bring  sound 
common  sense  to  bear  upon  what  he  hears  and  sees.  I 
think,  however,"  the  baronet  added,  "he  may  want  faith 
in  the  better  qualities  of  men."  And  this  reflection  in- 
clined him  not  to  let  his  son  be  alone  with  Adrian.  He 
gave  Richard  his  choice,  who  saw  which  way  his  father's 
wishes  tended,  and  decided  so  to  please  him.  Naturally 
it  annoyed  Adrian  extremely.     He  said  to  his  chief: 

"I  suppose  you  know  what  you  are  doing,  sir.  I  don't 
see  that  we  derive  any  advantage  from  the  family  name 
being  made  notorious  for  twenty  years  of  obscene  suffer- 
ing, and  1 uning  a  byword  for  our  constitutional  ten- 
dency to  stomachic  distention  before  we  fortunately  en- 
countered Quackem's  Pill.  My  uncle's  tortures  have  been 
huge,  but  I  would  rather  society  were  not  intimate  with 


THE  HERO   TAKES  A  STEP  185 

them  under  their  several  headings."  Adrian  enumerated 
some  of  the  most  abhorrent.  "You  know  him,  sir.  If  he 
conceives  a  duty,  he  will  do  it  in  the  face  of  every  decency 
— all  the  more  obstinate  because  the  conception  is  rare. 
If  he  feels  a  little  brisk  the  morning  after  the  pill,  he 
sends  the  letter  that  makes  us  famous!  We  go  down  to 
posterity  with  heightened  characteristics,  to  say  nothing 
of  a  contemporary  celebrity  nothing  less  than  our  being 
turned  inside-out  to  the  rabble.  I  confess  I  don't  desire 
to  have  my  machinery  made  bare  to  them." 

Sir  Austin  assured  the  wise  youth  that  Hippias  had  ar- 
ranged to  go  to  Dr.  Bairam.  He  softened  Adrian's 
chagrin  by  telling  him  that  in  about  two  weeks  they 
would  follow  to  London :  hinting  also  at  a  prospective 
Summer  campaign.  The  day  was  fixed  for  Richard  to 
depart,  and  the  day  came.  Madame  the  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury called  him  to  her  chamber  and  put  into  his  hand 
a  fifty-pound  note,  as  her  contribution  toward  his  pocket- 
expenses.  He  did  not  want  it,  he  said,  but  she  told  him 
he  was  a  young  man,  and  would  soon  make  that  fly  when 
he  stood  on  his  own  feet.  The  old  lady  did  not  at  all 
approve  of  the  System  in  her  heart,  and  she  gave  her 
grand-nephew  to  understand  that,  should  he  require  more, 
he  knew  where  to  apply,  and  secrets  would  be  kept.  His 
father  presented  him  with  a  hundred  pounds — which  also 
Richard  said  he  did  not  want — he  did  not  care  for  money. 
"Spend  it  or  not,"  said  the  baronet,  perfectly  secure  in 
him. 

Hippias  had  few  injunctions  to  observe.  They  were  to 
take  up  quarters  at  the  hotel,  Algernon's  general  run  of 
company  at  the  house  not  being  altogether  wholesome. 
The  baronet  particularly  forewarned  Hippias  of  the  im- 
prudence of  attempting  to  restrict  the  young  man's  move- 
ments, and  letting  him  imagine  he  was  under  surveillance. 
Richard  having  been,  as  it  were,  pollarded  by  despotism, 
was  now  to  grow  up  straight,  and  bloom  again,  in  complete 
independence,  as  far  as  he  could  feel.  So  did  the  sage 
decree;  and  we  may  pause  a  moment  to  reflect  how  wise 
were  his  previsions,  and  how  successful  they  must  have 
been,  had  not  Fortune,  the  great  foe  to  human  cleverness, 
turned  against  him,  or  he  against  himself. 

The  departure  took  place  on  a  fine  March  morning.    The 


L86      THE  OKDEAl  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

bird  of  Winter  Bang  from  the  budding  tree;  in  the  blue 
sky  sang  the  bird  of  Summer.  Adrian  rode  between  Rich- 
ard and  Hippias  to  the  Bellingham  station,  and  vented 
his  disgust  on  them  after  his  own  humorous  fashion, 
because  it  did  not  rain  and  damp  their  ardour.  In  tin' 
rear  came  Lady  Blandish  and  the  baronet,  conversing  on 
the  calm  summit  of  success. 

"You  have  shaped  him  exactly  to  resemble  yourself," 
she  said,  pointing  with  her  riding-whip  to  the  grave. 
stately  figure  of  the  young  man. 

"Outwardly,  perhaps,"  he  answered,  and  led  to  a  dis- 
cussion on  Purity  and  Strength,  the  lady  saying  that  she 
preferred  Purity. 

"But  you  do  not,"  said  the  baronet.  "And  there  I  ad- 
mire the  always  true  instinct  of  women,  that  they  all 
worship  Strength  in  whatever  form,  and  seem  to  know  it 
to  be  the  child  of  heaven;  whereas  Purity  is  but  a  charac- 
teristic, a  garment,  and  can  be  spotted — how  soon !  For 
there  are  questions  in  this  life  with  which  we  must  grapple 
or  be  lost,  and  when,  hunted  by  that  cold  eye  of  intense 
inner-consciousness,  the  clearest  soul  becomes  a  cunning 
fox,  if  it  have  not  courage  to  stand  and  do  battle. 
Strength  indicates  a  boundless  nature — like  the  Maker. 
Strength  is  a  God  to  you — Purity  a  toy.  A  pretty  one, 
and  you  seem  to  be  fond  of  playing  with  it,"  he  added, 
with  unaccustomed  slyness. 

The  lady  listened,  pleased  at  the  sportive  malice  wdiich 
showed  that  the  constraint  on  his  mind  had  left  him.  It 
was  for  women  to  fight  their  fight  now;  she  only  took  part 
in  it  for  amusement.  This  is  how  the  ranks  of  our 
enemies  are  thinned;  no  sooner  do  poor  women  put  up  a 
champion  in  their  midst  than  she  betrays  them. 

"I  see,"  she  said  archly,  "we  are  the  lovelier  vessels; 
you  claim  the  more  direct  descent.  Men  are  seedlings : 
Women — slips!  Nay,  you  have  said  so,"  she  cried  out  at 
his  gestured  protestation,  laughing. 

"But  I  never  printed  it." 

"Oh!  what  you  speak  answers  for  print  with  me." 

Exquisite  Blandish !    He  could  not  choose  but  love  hor. 

"Tell  me  what  are  your  plans?"  she  asked.  "May  a 
woman  know?" 

He  replied,  "I  have  none  or  you  would  share  them.     I 


THE  HERO   TAKES  A  STEP  187 

shall  study  him  in  the  world.  This  indifference  must  wear 
off.  I  shall  mark  his  inclinations  now,  and  he  shall  be 
what  he  inclines  to.  Occupation  will  be  his  prime  safety. 
His  cousin  Austin's  plan  of  life  appears  most  to  his  taste, 
and  he  can  serve  the  people  that  way  as  well  as  in  Parlia- 
ment, should  he  have  no  stronger  ambition.  The  clear 
duty  of  a  man  of  any  wealth  is  to  serve  the  people  as  he 
best  can.  He  shall  go  among  Austin's  set,  if  he  wishes 
it,  though  personally  I  find  no  pleasure  in  rash  imagina- 
tions, and  undigested  schemes  built  upon  the  mere  instinct 
of  principles." 

"Look  at  him  now,"  said  the  lady.  "He  seems  to  care 
for  nothing;  not  even  for  the  beauty  of  the  day." 

"Or  Adrian's  jokes,"  added  the  baronet. 

Adrian  could  be  seen  to  be  trying  zealously  to  torment 
a  laugh,  or  a  confession  of  irritation,  out  of  his  hearers, 
stretching  out  his  chin  to  one,  and  to  the  other,  with 
audible  asides.  Richard  he  treated  as  a  new  instrument 
of  destruction  about  to  be  let  loose  on  the  slumbering 
metropolis;  Hippias  as  one  in  an  interesting  condition; 
and  he  got  so  much  fun  out  of  the  notion  of  these  two 
journeying  together,  and  the  mishaps  that  might  occur 
to  them,  that  he  esteemed  it  almost  a  personal  insult  for 
his  hearers  not  to  laugh.  The  wise  youth's  dull  life  at 
Raynham  had  afflicted  him  with  many  peculiarities  of  the 
professional  joker. 

"Oh!  the  Spring!  the  Spring!"  he  cried,  as  in  scorn  of 
his  sallies  they  exchanged  their  unmeaning  remarks  on  the 
sweet  weather  across  him.  "You  seem  both  to  be  uncom- 
monly excited  by  the  operations  of  turtles,  rooks,  and  daws. 
Why  can't  you  let  them  alone  ? 

'Wind  bloweth, 
Cock  croweth, 

Doodle-doo; 
Hippy  verteth, 
Ricky  sterteth, 

Sing  Cuckoo!' 

There's  an  old  native  pastoral! — Why  don't  you  write  a 
Spring  sonnet,  Ricky?  The  asparagus-beds  are  full  of 
promise,  I  hear,  and  eke  the  strawberry.  Berries  I  fancy 
your  Pegasus  has  a  taste  for.    What  kind  of  berry  was  that 


l^      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVERKL 

I  saw  some  verses  of  yours  about  once? — amatory  verses 
to  some  kind  of  berry — yewberry,  blueberry,  ^hichrrry ! 
Pretty  verses,  decidedly  warm.  Lips,  eyes,  bosom,  legs — 
legs?  1  don't  think  you  gave  ber  any  legs.  No  legs  and 
no  nose.  Thai  appears  to  be  tbe  poetic  taste  of  the  clay. 
It  shall  be  admitted  that  you  create  the  very  beauties  for  a 
chaste  people. 

'O  might  I  lie  whore  leans  her  lute!' 

and  offend  no  moral  community.  That's  not  a  bad  image 
of  yours,  my  dear  boy: 

'Her  shape  is  like  an  antelope 
Upon  the  Eastern  hills.' 

But  as  a  candid  critic,  I  would  ask  you  if  the  likeness  can 
be  considered  correct  when  you  give  her  no  legs  ?  You  will 
see  at  the  ballet  that  you  are  in  error  about  women  at 
present,  Richard.  That  admirable  institution  which  our 
venerable  elders  have  imported  from  Gallia  for  the  instruc- 
tion of  our  gaping  youth,  will  edify  and  astonish  you.  I 
assure  you  I  used,  from  reading  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip,  to 
imagine  all  sorts  of  things  about  them,  till  I  was  taken 
there,  and  learnt  that  they  are  very  like  us  after  all,  and 
then  they  ceased  to  trouble  me.  Mystery  is  the  great 
danger  to  youth,  my  son !  Mystery  is  woman's  redoubtable 
weapon,  O  Richard  of  the  Ordeal !  I'm  aware  that  you've 
had  your  lessons  in  anatomy,  but  nothing  will  persuade 
you  that  an  anatomical  figure  means  flesh  and  blood.  You 
can't  realize  the  fact.  Do  you  intend  to  publish  when 
you're  in  town  ?  It'll  be  better  not  to  put  your  name. 
Having  one's  name  to  a  volume  of  poems  is  as  bad  as  to 
an  advertising  pill." 

"I  will  send  you  an  early  copy,  Adrian,  when  I  publish," 
quoth  Richard.     "Hark  at  that  old  blackbird,  uncle." 

"Yes!"  Hippias  quavered,  looking  up  from  the  usual 
subject  of  his  contemplation,  and  trying  to  take  an  in- 
terest in  him,  "fine  old  fellow!" 

"What  a  chuckle  he  gives  out  before  he  flies !  Not 
unlike  July  nightingales.  You  know  that  bird  I  "told 
you  of — the  blackbird  that  had  its  mate  shot,  and  used 
to  come  to  sing  to  old  Dame  Bakewell's  bird  from  the  tree 


THE  HEKO   TAKES  A  STEP  189 

opposite.  A  rascal  knocked  it  over  the  day  before  yes- 
terday, and  the  dame  says  her  bird  hasn't  sung  a  note 
since." 

"Extraordinary !"  Hippias  muttered  abstractedly.  "I 
remember  the  verses." 

"But  where' s  your  moral?"  interposed  the  wrathful 
Adrian.     "Where's  constancy  rewarded? 

'The  ouzel-cock  so  black  of  hue, 

The  orange-tawny  bill ; 
The  rascal  with  his  aim  so  true; 

The  Poet's  little  quill!' 

Where's  the  moral  of  that  ?  except  that  all's  game  to  the 
poet !  Certainly  we  have  a  noble  example  of  the  devoted- 
ness  of  the  female,  who  for  three  entire  days  refuses  to 
make  herself  heard,  on  account  of  a  defunct  male.  I 
suppose  that's  what  Ricky  dwells  on." 

"As  you  please,  my  dear  Adrian,"  says  Richard,  and 
points  out  larch-buds  to  his  uncle,  as  they  ride  by  the 
young  green  wood. 

The  wise  youth  was  driven  to  extremity.  Such  a  lapse 
from  his  pupil's  heroics  to  this  last  verge  of  Arcadian  cool- 
ness, Adrian  could  not  believe  in.  "Hark  at  this  old 
blackbird!"  he  cried,  in  his  turn,  and  pretending  to  in- 
terpret his  fits  of  song : 

"Oh,  what  a  pretty  comedy! — Don't  we  wear  the  mask 
well,  my  Fieseo? — Genoa  will  be  our  own  to-morrow! — 
Only  wait  until  the  train  has  started — jolly!  jolly!  jolly! 
We'll  be  winners  yet! 

"Not  a  bad  verse — eh,  Ricky?  my  Lucius  Junius!" 

"You  do  the  blackbird  well,"  said  Richard,  and  looked 
at  him  in  a  manner  mildly  affable. 

Adrian  shrugged.  "You're  a  young  man  of  wonderful 
powers,"  he  emphatically  observed;  meaning  to  say  that 
Richard  quite  beat  him;  for  which  opinion  Richard 
gravely  thanked  him,  and  with  this  they  rode  into  Bell- 
ingham. 

There  was  young  Tom  Blaize  at  the  station,  in  his  Sun- 
day beaver  and  gala  waistcoat  and  neckcloth,  coming  the 
lord  over  Tom  Bakewell,  who  had  preceded  his  master  in 
charge  of  the  baggage.     He  likewise  was  bound  for  Lon- 


190       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

don.  Richard,  as  he  was  dismounting,  heard  Adrian  say- 
to  the-  baronet:  "Tin-  'least,  sir,  appears  to  be  going  to 
fetch  Beauty;*'  hut  he  paid  no  heed  to  the  words. 
Whether  young  Tom  heard  them  or  not,  Adrian's  look 
took  the  lord  out  of  him,  and  he  shrunk  away  into  ob- 
scurity, where  the  nearest  approach  to  the  fashions  which 
the  tailors  of  Bellingham  could  supply  to  him,  sat  upon 
him  more  easily,  and  he  was  not  stiffened  by  the  eyes  of 
the  superiors  whom  he  sought  to  rival.  The  baronet,  Lady 
Blandish,  and  Adrian  remained  on  horseback,  and  received 
Richard's  adieus  across  the  palings.  He  shook  hands  with 
each  of  them  in  the  same  kindly  cold  way,  eliciting  from 
Adrian  a  marked  encomium  on  his  style  of  doing  it.  The 
train  came  up,  and  Richard  stepped  after  his  uncle  into 
one  of  the  carriages. 

Now  surely  there  will  come  an  age  when  the  presenta- 
tion of  science  at  war  with  Fortune  and  the  Fates  will 
be  deemed  the  true  epic  of  modern  life;  and  the  aspect  of 
a  scientific  humanist  who,  by  dint  of  incessant  watchful- 
ness, has  maintained  a  System  against  those  active  forces, 
cannot  be  reckoned  less  than  sublime,  even  though  at  the 
moment  he  but  sit  upon  his  horse,  on  a  fine  March  morn- 
ing such  as  this,  and  smile  wistfully  to  behold  the  son 
of  his  heart,  his  System  incarnate,  wave  a  serene  adieu  to 
tutelage,  neither  too  eager  nor  morbidly  unwilling  to  try 
his  luck  alone  for  a  term  of  two  weeks.  At  present,  I  am 
aware,  an  audience  impatient  for  blood  and  glory  scorns 
the  stress  I  am  putting  on  incidents  so  minute,  a  picture 
so  little  imposing.  An  audience  will  come  to  whom  it  will 
be  given  to  see  the  elementary  machinery  at  work :  who, 
as  it  were,  from  some  slight  hint  of  the  straws,  will  feel 
the  winds  of  March  when  they  do  not  blow.  To  them  will 
nothing  be  trivial,  seeing  that  they  will  have  in  their  eyes 
the  invisible  conflict  going  on  around  us,  whose  features 
a  nod,  a  smile,  a  laugh  of  ours  perpetually  changes.  And 
they  will  perceive,  moreover,  that  in  real  life  all  hangs 
together:  the  train  is  laid  in  the  lifting  of  an  eyebrow, 
that  bursts  upon  the  field  of  thousands.  They  will  see 
the  links  of  things  as  they  pass,  and  wonder  not,  as  foolish 
people  now  do,  that  this  great  matter  came  out  of  that 
small  one. 

Such  an  audience,  then,  will  participate  in  the  baronet's 


THE  HERO   TAKES  A  STEP  191 

gratification  at  his  son's  demeanour,  wherein  he  noted  the 
calm  bearing  of  experience  not  gained  in  the  usual  wan- 
ton way:  and  will  not  be  without  some  excited  apprehen- 
sion at  his  twinge  of  astonishment,  when,  just  as  the  train 
went  sliding  into  swiftness,  he  beheld  the  grave,  cold, 
self-possessed  young  man  throw  himself  back  in  the  car- 
riage violently  laughing.  Science  was  at  a  loss  to  account 
for  that.  Sir  Austin  checked  his  mind  from  inquiring, 
that  he  might  keep  suspicion  at  a  distance,  but  he  thought 
it  odd,  and  the  jarring  sensation  that  ran  along  his  nerves 
at  the  sight,  remained  with  him  as  he  rode  home. 

Lady  Blandish's  tender  womanly  intuition  bade  her  say : 
"You  see  it  was  the  very  thing  he  wanted.  He  has  got  his 
natural  spirits  already." 

"It  was,"  Adrian  put  in  his  word,  "the  exact  thing  he 
wanted.     His  spirits  have  returned  miraculously." 

"Something  amused  him,"  said  the  baronet,  with  an  eye 
on  the  puffing  train. 

"Probably  something  his  uncle  said  or  did,"  Lady  Blan- 
dish suggested,  and  led  off  at  a  gallop. 

Her  conjecture  chanced  to  be  quite  correct.  The  cause 
for  Richard's  laughter  was  simple  enough.  Hippias,  on 
finding  the  carriage-door  closed  on  him,  became  all  at  once 
aware  of  the  bright-haired  hope  which  dwells  in  Change, 
for  one  who  does  not  woo  her  too  frequently;  and  to  ex- 
press his  sudden  relief  from  mental  despondency  at  the 
amorous  prospect,  the  Dyspepsy  bent  and  gave  his  hands 
a  sharp  rub  between  his  legs:  which  unlucky  action 
brought  Adrian's  pastoral, 

"Hippy  verteth, 
Sing  cuckoo!" 

in  such  comic  colours  before  Richard,  that  a  demon  of 
laughter  seized  him. 

"Hippy  verteth!" 

Every  time  he  glanced  at  his  uncle  the  song  sprang  up, 
and  he  laughed  so  immoderately  that  it  looked  like  mad- 
ness come  upon  him. 

"Why,  why,  why,  what  are  you  laughing  at,  my  dear 


L92       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

boy,"  said  Hippias.  and  was  provoked  by  the  contagious 
exercise  to  a  modest  "ha!  ha!" 

"Why,  what  are  you  laughing  at,  uncle?"  cried  Richard. 

"I  really  don't  know,"  Hippias  chuckled. 

"Nor  I,  uncle!     Sing,  cuckoo!" 

They  laughed  themselves  into  the  pleasantest  mood 
imaginable.  Hippias  not  only  came  aboveground,  he  flew 
about  in  the  very  skies,  verting  like  any  blithe  creature  of 
the  season.  He  remembered  old  legal  jokes,  and  anecdotes 
of  Circuit;  and  Richard  laughed  at  them  all,  but  more  at 
him — he  was  so  genial,  and  childishly  fresh,  and  inno- 
cently joyful  at  his  own  transformation,  while  a  lurking 
doubt  in  the  bottom  of  his  eyes,  now  and  then,  that  it 
might  not  last,  and  that  he  must  go  underground  again, 
lent  him  a  look  of  pathos  and  humour  which  tickled  his 
youthful  companion  irresistibly,  and  made  his  heart  warm 
to  him. 

"I  tell  you  what,  uncle,"  said  Richard,  "I  think  travel- 
ling's a  capital  thing." 

"The  best  thing  in  the  world,  my  dear  boy,"  Hippias 
returned.  "It  makes  me  wish  I  had  given  up  that  Work 
of  mine,  and  tried  it  before,  instead  of  chaining  myself 
to  a  task.  We're  quite  different  beings  in  a  minute.  I 
am.     Hem!  what  shall  we  have  for  dinner?" 

"Leave  that  to  me,  uncle.  I  shall  order  for  you.  You 
know,  I  intend  to  make  you  well.  How  gloriously  we  go 
along!    I  shoidd  like  to  ride  on  a  railway  every  day." 

Hippias  remarked:  "They  say  it  rather  injures  the  di- 
gestion." 

"Nonsense!  see  how  you'll  digest  to-night  and  to- 
morrow." 

"Perhaps  I  shall  do  something  yet,"  sighed  Hippias, 
alluding  to  the  vast  literary  fame  he  had  aforetime 
dreamed  of.     "I  hope  I  shall  have  a  good  night  to-night." 

"Of  course  you  will!     What!  after  laughing  like  that?" 

"Ugh!"  Hippias  grunted,  "I  daresay,  Richard,  you  sleep 
the  moment  you  get  into  bed !" 

"The  instant  my  head's  on  my  pillow,  and  up  the 
moment  I  wake.     Health's  everything!" 

"Health's  everything!"  echoed  Hippias,  from  his  im- 
mense distance. 

"And  if  you'll  put  yourself  in  my  hands,"  Richard  con- 


THE  HERO   TAKES  A  STEP  193 

tinued,  "you  shall  do  just  as  I  do.  You  shall  be  well  and 
strong,  and  sing  'Jolly!'  like  Adrian's  blackbird.  You 
shall,  upon  my  hoaour,  uncle!" 

He  specified  the  hours  of  devotion  to  his  uncle's  recov- 
ery— no  less  than  twelve  a  day — that  he  intended  to  ex- 
pend, and  his  cheery  robustness  ^almost  won  his  uncle  to 
leap  up  recklessly  and  clutch  health  as  his  own. 

"Mind,"    quoth    Hippias,    with    a    half-seduced    smile, 
"mind  your  dishes  are  not  too  savoury!" 

"Light  food  and  claret !  Regular  meals  and  amusement ! 
Lend  your  heart  to  all,  but  give  it  to  none!"  exclaims 
young  Wisdom,  and  Hippias  mutters,  "Yes!  yes!"  and 
intimates  that  the  origin  of  his  malady  lay  in  his  not  fol- 
lowing that  maxim  earlier. 

"Love  ruins  us,  my  dear  boy,"  he  said,  thinking  to 
preach  Richard  a  lesson,  and  Richard  boisterously  broke 
out — 

"The  love  of  Monsieur  Francatelli, 
It  was  the  ruin  of — et  ccetera." 

Hippias  blinked,  exclaiming,  "Really,  my  dear  boy!  I 
never  saw  you  so  excited." 

"It's  the  railway!     It's  the  fun,  uncle!" 

"Ah !"  Hippias  wagged  a  melancholy  head,  "you've  got 
the  Golden  Bride!  Keep  her  if  you  can.  That's  a  pretty 
fable  of  your  father's.  I  gave  him  the  idea,  though. 
Austin  filches  a  great  many  of  my  ideas!" 

"Here's  the  idea  in  verse,  uncle — 

'0  sunless  walkers  by  the  tide! 
O  have  you  seen  the  Golden  Bride! 
They  say  that  she  is  fair  beyond 
All  women;  faithful,  and  more  fond!' 

You  know,  the  young  inquirer  comes  to  a  group  of  peni- 
tent sinners  by  the  brink  of  a  stream.  They  howl,  and 
answer : 

'Faithful  she  is,  but  she  forsakes: 
And  fond,  yet  endless  woe  she  makes: 
And  fair!  but  with  this  curse  she's  cross'd; 
To  know  her  not  till  she  is  lost!' 


194       THE  ORPKAI.  OF  RICHARD   FEVEREL 

Then  the  doleful  party  inarch  of!  in  single  file  solemnly, 
and  the  fabulist  pursues — 

'She  hath  a  palace  in  the  West: 
Bright  Jlesper  lights  her  to  her  rest: 
And   him    the  Morning   Star   awakes 
Whom  to  her  charmed  arms  she  takes. 

'So  lives  he  till  he  sees,  alas! 
The  maids  of  baser  metal  pass.' 

And  prodigal  of  the  happiness  she  lends  him,  he  asks  to 
share  it  with  one  of  them.  There  is  the  Silver  Maid,  and 
the  Copper,  and  the  Brassy  Maid,  and  others  of  them. 
First,  you  know,  he  tries  Argentine,  and  finds  her  only 
twenty  to  the  pound,  and  has  a  worse  experience  with 
Copperina,  till  he  descends  to  the  scullery;  and  the  lower 
he  goes,  the  less  obscure  become  the  features  of  his  Bride 
of  Gold,  and  all  her  radiance  shines  forth,  my  uncle!" 

"Verse  rather  blunts  the  point.  Well,  keep  to  her,  now 
you've  got  her,"  says  Hippias. 

"We  will,  uncle !  Look  how  the  farms  fly  past !  Look 
at  the  cattle  in  the  fields !  And  how  the  lines  duck,  and 
swim  up! 

'She  claims  the  whole,  and  not  the  part — 
The  coin  of  an  unused  heart! 
To  gain  his  Golden  Bride  again, 
He  hunts  with  melancholy  men,' 

— and  is  waked  no  longer  by  the  Morning  Star!" 

"Not  if  he  doesn't  sleep  till  an  hour  before  it  rises!" 

Hippias  interjected.     "You  don't  rhyme  badly.     But  stick 

to  prose.     Poetry's  a  Base-metal  maid.     I'm  not  sure  that 

any  writing's  good  for  the  digestion.     I'm  afraid  it  has 

spoilt  mine." 

"Fear  nothing,  uncle!"  laughed  Richard.     "You  shall 

ride  in  the  park  with  me  every  day  to  get  an  appetite. 

You  and  I  and  the  Golden  Bride.     You  know  that  little 

poem  of  Sandoe's? 

'She  rides  in  the  park  on  a  prancing  bay, 

She  and  her  squires  together; 
Her  dark  locks  gleam  from  a  bonnet  of  grey, 
And  toss  with  the  tossing  feather. 


THE  HERO   TAKES  A  STEP  195 

'Too  calmly  proud  for  a  glance  of  pride 

Is  the  beautiful  face  as  it  passes; 
The  cockneys  nod  to  each  other  aside, 

The  coxcombs  lift  their  glasses. 

'And  throng  to  her,  sigh  to  her,  you  that  can  breach 

The  ice-wall  that  guards  her  securely; 
You  have  not  such  bliss,  though  she  smile  on  you  each, 

As  the  heart  that  can  image  her  purely.' 

Wasn't  Sandoe  once  a  friend  of  my  father's?  I  suppose 
they  quarrelled.  He  understands  the  heart.  What  does 
he  make  his  'Humble  Lover'  say? 

'True,  Madam,  you  may  think  to  part 

Conditions  by  a  glacier-ridge, 
But  Beauty's  for  the  largest  heart. 

And  all  abysses  Love  can  bridge ! '  " 

Hippias  now  laughed;  grimly,  as  men  laugh  at  the 
emptiness  of  words. 

"Largest  heart!"  he  sneered.  "What's  a  'glacier-ridge'? 
I've  never  seen  one.  I  can't  deny  it  rhymes  with  'bridge.' 
But  don't  go  parading  your  admiration  of  that  person, 
Richard.  Your  father  will  speak  to  you  on  the  subject 
when  he  thinks  fit." 

"I  thought  they  had  quarrelled,"  said  Richard.  "What 
a  pity!"  and  he  murmured  to  a  pleased  ear: 

"Beauty's  for  the  largest  heart!" 

The  flow  of  their  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the 
entrance  of  passengers  a+  a  station.  Richard  examined 
their  faces  with  pleasure.  All  faces  pleased  him.  Human 
nature  sat  tributary  at  the  feet  of  him  and  his  Golden 
Bride.  As  he  could  not  well  talk  his  thoughts  before  them, 
he  looked  out  at  the  windows,  and  enjoyed  the  changing 
landscape,  projecting  all  sorts  of  delights  for  his  old  friend 
Ripton,  and  musing  hazily  on  the  wondrous  things  he  was 
to  do  in  the  world;  of  the  great  service  he  was  to  be  to 
his  fellow-creatures.  In  the  midst  of  his  reveries  he  was 
landed  in  London.  Tom  Bakewell  stood  at  the  carriage 
door.     A  glance  told  Richard  that  his  squire  had  some- 


196      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

thing  curiou9  on  his  mind,  and  he  gave  Tom  the  word 
to  speak  out.  Tom  edged  his  master  out  of  hearing,  and 
began  sputtering  a  laugh. 

"Dash'd  if  1  can  help  it,  sir!"  he  said.  "That  young 
Tom!  Ile've  come  to  town  dressed  that  spicy!  mu\  he 
don't  know  his  way  about  no  more  than  a  stag.  He's  come 
to  fetch  somebody  from  another  rail,  and  he  don't  know 
how  to  get  there,  and  he  ain't  sure  about  which  rail  'tis. 
Look  at  him,  Mr.  Richard!     There  he  goes." 

Young  Tom  appeared  to  have  the  weight  of  all  London 
on  his  beaver. 

"Who  has  he  come  for?"  Richard  asked. 

"Don't  you  know,  sir?  You  don't  like  me  to  mention 
the  name,"  mumbled  Tom,  bursting  to  be  perfectly  in- 
telligible. 

"Is  it  for  her,  Tom  ?" 

"Miss  Lucy,  sir." 

Richard  turned  away,  and  was  seized  by  Hippias,  who 
begged  him  to  get  out  of  the  noise  and  pother,  and  caught 
hold  of  his  slack  arm  to  bear  him  into  a  conveyance;  but 
Richard,  by  wheeling  half  to  the  right,  or  left,  always  got 
his  face  round  to  the  point  where  young  Tom  was  manoeu- 
vring to  appear  at  his  ease.  Even  when  they  were  seated 
in  the  conveyance,  Hippias  could  not  persuade  him  to  drive 
off.  He  made  the  excuse  that  he  did  not  wish  to  start  till 
there  was  a  clear  road.  At  last  young  Tom  cast  anchor 
by  a  policeman,  and,  doubtless  at  the  official's  suggestion, 
bashfully  took  seat  in  a  cab,  and  was  shot  into  the  whirl- 
pool of  London.  Richard  then  angrily  asked  his  driver 
what  he  was  waiting  for. 

"Are  you  ill,  my  boy?"  said  Hippias.  "Where's  your 
colour?" 

He  laughed  oddly,  and  made  a  random  answer  that  he 
hoped  the  fellow  would  drive  fast. 

"I  hate  slow  motion  after  being  in  the  railway,"  he  said. 

Hippias  assured  him  there  was  something  the  matter 
with  him. 

"Nothing,  uncle!  nothing!"  said  Richard,  looking 
fiercely  candid. 

They  say,  that  when  the  skill  and  care  of  men  rescue 
a  drowned  wretch  from  extinction,  and  warm  the  flicker- 
ing spirit   into  steady  flame,   such  pain   it   is,   the   blood 


THE  HEKO  TAKES  A  STEP  .   197 

forcing  its  way  along  the  dry  channels,  and  the  heavily- 
ticking  nerves,  and  the  sullen  heart — the  struggle  of  life 
and  death  in  him — grim  death  relaxing  his  gripe;  such 
pain  it  is,  he  cries  out  no  thanks  to  them  that  pull  him 
by  inches  from  the  depths  of  the  dead  river.  And  he  who 
has  thought  a  love  extinct,  and  is  surprised  by  the  old 
fires,  and  the  old  tyranny,  he  rebels,  and  strives  to  fight 
clear  of  the  cloud  of  forgotten  sensations  that  settle  on 
him;  such  pain  it  is,  the  old  sweet  music  reviving  through 
his  frame,  and  the  charm  of  his  passion  fixing  him  afresh. 
Still  was  fair  Lucy  the  one  woman  to  Richard.  He  had 
forbidden  her  name  but  from  an  instinct  of  self-defence. 
Must  the  maids  of  baser  metal  dominate  him  anew,  it  is 
in  Lucy's  shape.  Thinking  of  her  now  so  near  him — his 
darling!  all  her  graces,  her  sweetness,  her  truth;  for, 
despite  his  bitter  blame  of  her,  he  knew  her  true — swam 
in  a  thousand  visions  before  his  eyes;  visions  pathetic, 
and  full  of  glory,  that  now  wrung  his  heart,  and  now 
elated  it.  As  well  might  a  ship  attempt  to  calm  the  sea, 
as  this  young  man  the  violent  emotion  that  began  to  rage 
in  his  breast.  "I  shall  not  see  her!"  he  said  to  himself 
exultingly,  and  at  the  same  instant  thought,  how  black 
was  every  corner  of  the  earth  but  that  one  spot  where 
Lucy  stood !  how  utterly  cheerless  the  place  he  was  going 
to!  Then  he  determined  to  bear  it;  to  live  in  darkness; 
there  was  a  refuge  in  the  idea  of  a  voluntary  martyrdom. 
"For  if  I  chose  I  could  see  her — this  day  within  an  hour! 
— I  could  see  her,  and  touch  her  hand,  and,  oh,  heaven ! — 
But  I  do  not  choose."  And  a  great  wave  swelled  through 
him,  and  was  crushed  down  only  to  swell  again  more 
stormily. 

Then  Tom  Bakewell's  words  recurred  to  him  that  young 
Tom  Blaize  was  uncertain  where  to  go  for  her,  and  that 
she  might  be  thrown  on  this  Babylon  alone.  And  flying 
from  point  to  point,  it  struck  him  that  they  had  known 
at  Raynham  of  her  return,  and  had  sent  him  to  town  to 
be  out  of  the  way — they  had  been  miserably  plotting 
against  him  once  more.  "They  shall  see  what  right  they 
have  to  fear  me.  I'll  shame  them !"  was  the  first  turn 
taken  by  his  wrathful  feelings,  as  he  resolved  to  go,  and 
wee  her  safe,  and  calmly  return  to  his  uncle,  whom  he 
sincerely    believed   not   to    be    one   of   the   conspirators. 


ins      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

Nevertheless,  after  forming  that  resolve,  he  sat  still,  as 
if  there  was  something  fatal  in  the  wheels  that  bore  him 
away  from  it — perhaps  because  he  knew,  as  some  do  when 
passion  is  lord,  that  his  intelligence  juggled  with  him; 
though  none  the  less  keenly  did  he  feel  his  wrongs  and 
suspicions.  His  Golden  Bride  was  waning  fast.  But 
when  Hippias  ejaculated  to  cheer  him:  "We  shall  soon 
be  there!"  the  spell  broke.  Bichard  stopped  the  cab, 
saying  he  wanted  to  speak  to  Tom,  and  would  ride  with 
him  the  rest  of  the  journey.  He  know  well  enough  which 
line  of  railway  his  Lucy  must  come  by.  He  had  studied 
every  town  and  station  on  the  line.  Before  his  uncle 
could  express  more  than  a  mute  remonstrance,  he  jumped 
out  and  hailed  Tom  Bakewell,  who  came  behind  with  the 
boxes  and  baggage  in  a  companion  cab,  his  head  a  yard 
beyond  the  window  to  make  sure  of  his  ark  of  safety,  the 
vehicle  preceding. 

"What  an  extraordinary,  impetuous  boy  it  is,"  said  Hip- 
pias.    "We're  in  the  very  street !" 

Within  a  minute  the  stalwart  Berry,  despatched  by  the 
baronet  to  arrange  everything  for  their  comfort,  had 
opened  the  door,  and  made  his  bow. 

"Mr.  Bichard,  sir? — evaporated?"  was  Berry's  modu- 
lated inquiry. 

"Behind — among  the  boxes,  fool !"  Hippias  growled,  as 
he  received  Berry's  muscular  assistance  to  alight.  "Lunch 
ready — eh !" 

"Luncheon  was  ordered  precise  at  two  o'clock,  sir — been 
in  attendance  one  quarter  of  an  hour.  Heah!"  Berry  sang 
out  to  the  second  cab,  which,  with  its  pyramid  of  luggage, 
remained  stationary  some  thirty  paces  distant.  At  his 
voice  the  majestic  pile  deliberately  turned  its  back  on 
them,  and  went  off  in  a  contrary  direction. 


EAPID  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  HEEO       199 

CHAPTER   XXVI 
RECORDS    THE    RAPID   DEVELOPMENT   OF   THE   HERO 

On  the  stroke  of  the  hour  when  Ripton  Thompson  was 
accustomed  to  consult  his  good  watch  for  practical  pur- 
poses, and  sniff  freedom  and  the  forthcoming  dinner,  a 
burglarious  foot  entered  the  clerk's  office  where  he  sat, 
and  a  man  of  a  scowling  countenance,  who  looked  a  villain, 
and  whom  he  was  afraid  he  knew,  slid  a  letter  into  his 
hands,  nodding  that  it  would  be  prudent  for  him  to  read, 
and  be  silent.  Ripton  obeyed  in  alarm.  Apparently  the 
contents  of  the  letter  relieved  his  conscience;  for  he 
reached  down  his  hat,  and  told  Mr.  Beazley  to  inform  his 
father  that  he  had  business  of  pressing  importance  in  the 
West,  and  should  meet  him  at  the  station.  Mr.  Beazley 
zealously  waited  upon  the  paternal  Thompson  without 
delay,  and  together  making  their  observations  from  the 
window,  they  beheld  a  cab  of  many  boxes,  into  which 
Ripton  darted  and  was  followed  by  one  in  groom's  dress. 
It  was  Saturday,  the  day  when  Ripton  gave  up  his  law- 
readings,  magnanimously  to  bestow  himself  upon  his 
family,  and  Mr.  Thompson  liked  to  have  his  son's  arm  as 
he  walked  down  to  the  station ;  but  that  third  glass  of 
Port  which  always  stood  for  his  second,  and  the  groom's 
suggestion  of  aristocratic  acquaintances,  prevented  Mr. 
Thompson  from  interfering:  so  Ripton  was  permitted  to 
depart. 

In  the  cab  Ripton  made  a  study  of  the  letter  he  held. 
It  had  the  preciseness  of  an  imperial  mandate. 

"Dear  Ripton, — You  are  to  get  lodgings  for  a  lady 
immediately.  Not  a  word  to  a  soul.  Then  come  along 
with  Tom.  R.  D.   P." 

"Lodgings  for  a  lady !"  Ripton  meditated  aloud :  "What 
sort  of  lodgings?  Where  am  I  to  get  lodgings?  Who's 
the  lady? — I  say!"  he  addressed  the  mysterious  messen- 
ger.   "So  you're  Tom  Bakewell,  are  you,  Tom?" 

Tom  grinned  his  identity. 


200      THE  ORDKAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"Do  you  remember  the  rick,  Tom?  Hal  ha!  "We  pot 
out  of  that  neatly.  Wo  might  all  have  been  transported. 
though.  I  could  have  convicted  you,  Tom,  safe!  It's  no 
use  coming  across  a  practised  lawyer.  Now  tell  me." 
Ripton  having  llourishcd  his  powers,  commenced  his  ex- 
amination:  "Who's  this  lady?" 

"Better  wait  till  you  see  Mr.  Richard,  sir,"  Tom  re- 
sumed his  scowl  to  reply. 

"Ah!"  Ripton  acquiesced.     "Is  she  young,  Tom?" 

Tom  said  she  was  not  old. 

"Handsome,    Tom?" 

"Some  might  think  one  thing,  some  another,"  Tom 
said. 

"And  where  does  she  come  from  now?"  asked  Ripton 
with  the  friendly  cheerfulness  of  a  baffled  counsellor. 

"Comes  from  the  country,  sir." 

"A  friend  of  the  family,  I  suppose?  a  relation?" 

Ripton  left  this  insinuating  query  to  be  answered  by  a 
look.     Tom's  face  was  a  dead  blank. 

"Ah !"  Ripton  took  a  breath,  and  eyed  the  mask  op- 
posite him.  "Why,  you're  quite  a  scholar,  Tom!  Mr. 
Richard  is  well?     All  right  at  home?" 

"Come  to  town  this  mornin'  with  his  uncle,"  said  Tom. 
"All  well,  thank  ye,  sir." 

"Ha !"  cried  Ripton,  more  than  ever  puzzled,  "now  I 
see.  You  all  came  to  town  to-day,  and  these  are  your 
boxes  outside.  So,  so!  But.  Mr.  Richard  writes  for  me  to 
get  lodgings  for  a  lady.  There  must  be  some  mistake — 
he  wrote  in  a  hurry.    He  wants  lodgings  for  you  all — eh  ?" 

"  'M  sure  /  d'n  know  what  he  wants,"  said  Tom.  "You'd 
better  go  by  the  letter,  sir." 

Ripton  re-consulted  that  document.  "  'Lodgings  for  a 
lady,  and  then  come  along  with  Tom.  Not  a  word  to  a 
soul.'  I  say!  that  looks  like — but  he  never  cared  for 
them.  You  don't  mean  to  say,  Tom,  he's  been  running 
away  with  anybody  ?" 

Tom  fell  back  upon  his  first  reply:  "Better  wait  till  ye 
see  Mr.  Richard,  sir,"  and  Ripton  exclaimed:  "Hanged  if 
you  ain't  the  tightest  witness  I  ever  saw!  I  shouldn't 
like  to  have  you  in  a  box.  Some  of  you  country  fellows 
beat  any  number  of  cockneys.     You  do !" 

Tom  received  the  compliment  stubbornly  on  his  guard, 


EAPID  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  HERO       201 

and  Ripton,  as  nothing  was  to  be  got  out  of  him,  set  about 
considering  how  to  perform  his  friend's  injunctions;  de- 
ciding firstly,  that  a  lady  fresh  from  the  country  ought  to 
lodge  near  the  parks,  in  which  direction  he  told  the  cab- 
man to  drive.  Thus,  unaware  of  his  high  destiny,  Ripton 
joined  the  hero,  and  accepted  his  character  in  the  New 
Comedy. 

It  is,  nevertheless,  true  that  certain  favoured  people  do 
have  beneficent  omens  to  prepare  them  for  their  parts 
when  the  hero  is  in  full  career,  so  that  they  really  may 
be  nerved  to  meet  him ;  ay,  and  to  check  him  in  his  course, 
had  they  that  signal  courage.  For  instance,  Mrs.  Eliza- 
beth Berry,  a  ripe  and  wholesome  landlady  of  advertised 
lodgings,  on  the  borders  of  Kensington,  noted,  as  she  sat 
rocking  her  contemplative  person  before  the  parlour  fire 
this  very  March  afternoon,  a  supernatural  tendency  in 
that  fire  to  burn  all  on  one  side:  which  signifies  that  a 
wedding  approaches  the  house.  Why — who  shall  say? 
Omens  are  as  impassable  as  heroes.  It  may  be  because  in 
these  affairs  the  fire  is  thought  to  be  all  on  one  side. 
Enough  that  the  omen  exists,  and  spoke  its  solemn  warn- 
ing to  the  devout  woman.  Mrs.  Berry,  in  her  circle,  was 
known  as  a  certified  lecturer  against  the  snares  of  matri- 
mony. Still  that  was  no  reason  why  she  should  not  like  a 
wedding.  Expectant,  therefore,  she  watched  the  one  glow- 
ing cheek  of  Hymen,  and  with  pleasing  tremours  beheld 
a  cab  of  many  boxes  draw  up  by  her  bit  of  garden,  and  a 
gentleman  emerge  from  it  in  the  act  of  consulting  an  ad- 
vertisement paper.  The  gentleman  required  lodgings  for 
a  lady.  Lodgings  for  a  lady  Mrs.  Berry  could  produce, 
and  a  very  roseate  smile  for  a  gentleman ;  so  much  so  that 
Ripton  forgot  to  ask  about  the  terms,  which  made  the 
landlady  in  Mrs.  Berry  leap  up  to  embrace  him  as  the 
happy  man.  But  her  experienced  woman's  eye  checked 
her  enthusiasm.  He  had  not  the  air  of  a  bridegroom: 
he  did  not  seem  to  have  a  weight  on  his  chest,  or  an  itch 
to  twiddle  everything  with  his  fingers.  At  any  rate,  he 
was  not  the  bridegroom  for  whom  omens  fly  abroad. 
Promising  to  have  all  ready  for  the  lady  within  an  hour, 
Mrs.  Berry  fortified  him  with  her  card,  curtsied  him  back 
to  his  cab,  and  floated  him  off  on  her  smiles. 

The  remarkable  vehicle  which  had  woven  this  thread  of 


202      THE  ORDEAL  OE  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

intrigue  through  London  streets,  now  proceeded  sedately 
to  finish  its  operations.  Ripton  was  landed  at  a  hotel  in 
Westminster.  Ere>  he  was  halfway  up  the  stair-,  a  door 
opened,  and  his  old  comrade  in  adventure  rushed  down. 
Richard  allowed  no  time  for  salutations.  "Have  you  done 
it?"  was  all  he  asked.  Eor  answer  Ripton  handed  him 
Mrs.  Berry's  card.  Richard  took  it,  and  left  him  standing 
there.  Five  minutes  elapsed,  and  then  Ripton  heard  the 
gracious  rustle  of  feminine  garments  above.  Richard 
came  a  little  in  advance.  Leading  and  half  supporting  a 
figure  in  a  black-silk  mantle  and  small  black  straw  bonnet; 
young — that  was  certain,  though  she  held  her  veil  so  close 
he  could  hardly  catch  the  outlines  of  her  face;  girlishly 
slender,  and  sweet  and  simple  in  appearance.  The  hush 
that  came  with  her,  and  her  soft  manner  of  moving,  stirred 
the  silly  youth  to  some  of  those  ardours  that  awaken  the 
Knight  of  Dames  in  our  bosoms.  He  felt  that  he  would 
have  given  considerable  sums  for  her  to  lift  her  veil.  He 
could  see  that  she  was  trembling — perhaps  weeping.  It 
was  the  master  of  her  fate  she  clung  to.  They  passed 
him  without  speaking.  As  she  went  by,  her  head  passively 
bent,  Ripton  had  a  glimpse  of  noble  tresses  and  a  lovely 
neck;  great  golden  curls  hung  loosely  behind,  pouring 
from  under  her  bonnet.  She  looked  a  captive  borne  to  the 
sacrifice.  What  Ripton,  after  a  sight  of  those  curls,  would 
have  given  for  her  just  to  lift  her  veil  an  instant  and 
strike  him  blind  with  beauty,  was,  fortunately  for  his 
exchequer,  never  demanded  of  him.  And  he  had  abso- 
lutely been  composing  speeches  as  he  came  along  in  the 
cab!  gallant  speeches  for  the  lady,  and  sly  congratulatory 
ones  for  his  friend,  to  be  delivered  as  occasion  should 
serve,  that  both  might  know  him  a  man  of  the  world,  and 
be  at  their  ease.  He  forgot  the  smirking  immoralities 
he  had  revelled  in.  This  was  clearly  serious.  Ripton  did 
not  require  to  be  told  that  his  friend  was  in  love,  and 
meant  that  life  and  death  business  called  marriage,  par- 
ents and  guardians  consenting  or  not. 

Presently  Richard  returned  to  him,  and  said  hurriedly, 
"I  want  you  now  to  go  to  my  uncle  at  our  hotel.  Keep 
him  quiet  till  I  come.  Say  I  had  to  see  you — say  any- 
thing. I  shall  be  there  by  the  dinner  hour.  Rip!  I 
must  talk  to  you  alone  after  dinner." 


EAPID  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  HERO       203 

Ripton  feebly  attempted  to  reply  that  he  was  due  at 
home.  He  was  very  curious  to  hear  the  plot  of  the  New 
Comedy;  and  besides,  there  was  Richard's  face  question- 
ing him  sternly  and  confidently  for  signs  of  unhesitating 
obedience.  He  finished  his  grimaces  by  asking  the  name 
and  direction  of  the  hotel.  Richard  pressed  his  hand. 
It  is  much  to  obtain  even  that  recognition  of  our  devotion 
from  the  hero. 

Tom  Bakewell  also  received  his  priming,  and,  to  judge 
by  his  chuckles  and  grins,  rather  appeared  to  enjoy  the 
work  cut  out  for  him.  In  a  few  minutes  they  had  driven 
to  their  separate  destinations ;  Ripton  was  left  to  the  un- 
usual exercise  of  his  fancy.  Such  is  the  nature  of  youth 
and  its  thirst  for  romance,  that  only  to  act  as  a  subordi- 
nate is  pleasant.  When  one  unfurls  the  standard  of  de- 
fiance to  parents  and  guardians,  he  may  be  sure  of  raising 
a  lawless  troop  of  adolescent  ruffians,  born  rebels,  to  any 
amount.  The  beardless  crew  know  that  they  have  not  a 
chance  of  pay;  but  what  of  that  when  the  rosy  prospect 
of  thwarting  their  elders  is  in  view?  Though  it  is  to  see 
another  eat  the  Forbidden  Fruit,  they  will  run  all  his 
risks  with  him.  Gaily  Ripton  took  rank  as  lieutenant 
in  the  enterprise,  and  the  moment  his  heart  had  sworn 
the  oaths,  he  was  rewarded  by  an  exquisite  sense  of  the 
charms  of  existence.  London  streets  wore  a  sly  laugh  to 
him.  He  walked  with  a  dandified  heel.  The  generous 
youth  ogled  aristocratic  carriages,  and  glanced  intimately 
at  the  ladies,  overflowingly  happy.  The  crossing-sweepers 
blessed  him.  He  hummed  lively  tunes,  he  turned  over 
old  jokes  in  his  mouth  unctuously,  he  hugged  himself,  he 
had  a  mind  to  dance  down  Piccadilly,  and  all  because  a 
friend  of  his  was  running  away  with  a  pretty  girl,  and 
he  was  in  the  secret. 

It  was  only  when  he  stood  on  the  doorstep  of  Richard's 
hotel,  that  his  jocund  mood  was  a  little  dashed  by  remem- 
bering that  he  had  then  to  commence  the  duties  of  hi 
office,  and  must  fabricate  a  plausible  story  to  account  fo 
what  he  knew  nothing   about — a  part  that  the  greates 
of  sages  would  find  it  difficult  to  perform.     The  young, 
however,  whom  sages  well  may  envy,  seldom  fail  in  lift- 
ing their  inventive  faculties  to  the  level  of  their  spirits, 
and  two  minutes  of  Hippias's  angry  complaints  against 


204      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

the    friend    he    Berenely    inquired    for,    gave   Ripton    his 
cue. 

"We're  in  the  very  street — within  a  stone's-throw  of 
the  house,  and  he  jumps  like  a  harlequin  out  of  nay  cab 
into  another;  he  must  be  mad — that  boy's  got  madness  in 
him! — and  carries  oil'  nil  the  boxes — my  dinner-pills,  too! 
iiinl  keeps  away  the  whole  of  the  day,  though  he  promised 
to  go  to  the  doctor,  and  had  a  dozen  enira<rements  with 
me,"  said  Hippias,  venting  an  enraged  snarl  to  sum  up 
his  grievances. 

Ripton  at  once  told  him  that  the  doctor  was  not  at 
home. 

"Why,  you  don't  mean  to  say  he's  been  to  the  doctor?" 
Hippias  cried  out. 

"He  has  called  on  him  twice,  sir,"  said  Ripton,  expres- 
sively. "On  leaving  me  he  was  going  a  third  time.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  that's  what  detains  him — he's  so  deter- 
mined." 

By  fine  degrees  Ripton  ventured  to  grow  circumstantial, 
saying  that  Richard's  case  was  urgent  and  required  im- 
mediate medical  advice;  and  that  both  he  and  his  father 
were  of  opinion  Richard  should  not  lose  an  hour  in  ob- 
taining it. 

"He's  alarmed  about  himself,"  said  Ripton,  and  tapped 
his  chest. 

Hippias  protested  he  had  never  heard  a  word  from  his 
nephew  of  any  physical  affliction. 

"He  was  afraid  of  making  you  anxious,  I  think,  sir." 

Algernon  Feverel  and  Richard  came  in  while  he  was 
hammering  at  the  alphabet  to  recollect  the  first  letter  of 
the  doctor's  name.  They  had  met  in  the  hall  below,  and 
were  laughing  heartily  as  they  entered  the  room.  Ripton 
jumped  up  to  get  the  initiative. 

"Have  you  seen  the  doctor?"  he  asked,  significantly 
plucking  at  Richard's  fingers. 

Richard  was  all  abroad  at  the  question. 

Algernon  clapped  him  on  the  back.  "What  the  deuce 
do  you  want  with  doctor,  boy?" 

The  solid  thump  awakened  him  to  see  matters  as  they 
were.  "Oh,  ay!  the  doctor!"  he  said,  smiling  frankly  at 
his  lieutenant.  "Why,  he  tells  me  he'd  back  me  to  do 
Milo's  trick  in  a  week  from  the  present  day. — Uncle,"  he 


RAPID  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  HERO       205 

came  forward  to  Hippias,  "I  hope  you'll  excuse  me  for 
running  off  as  I  did.  I  was  in  a  hurry.  I  left  something 
at  the  railway.  This  stupid  Kip  thinks  I  went  to  the 
doctor  about  myself.  The  fact  was,  I  wanted  to  fetch 
the  doctor  to  see  you  here — so  that  you  might  have  no 
trouble,  you  know.  You  can't  bear  the  sight  of  his  in- 
struments and  skeletons — I've  heard  you  say  so.  You 
said  it  set  all  your  marrow  in  revolt — 'fried  your  mar- 
row/ I  think  were  the  words,  and  made  you  see  twenty 
thousand  different  ways  of  sliding  down  to  the  chambers 
of  the  Grim  King.     Don't  you  remember?" 

Hippias  emphatically  did  not  remember,  and  he  did  not 
believe  the  story.  Irritation  at  the  mad  ravishment  of  his 
pill-box  rendered  him  incredulous.  As  he  had  no  means 
of  confuting  his  nephew,  all  he  could  do  safely  to  express 
his  disbelief  in  him,  was  to  utter  petulant  remarks  on  his 
powerlessness  to  appear  at  the  dinner-table  that  day :  upon 
which — Berry  just  then  trumpeting  dinner — Algernon 
seized  one  arm  of  the  Dyspepsy,  and  Richard  another,  and 
the  laughing  couple  bore  him  into  the  room  where  dinner 
was  laid,  Ripton  sniggering  in  the  rear,  the  really  happy 
man  of  the  party. 

They  had  fun  at  the  dinner-table.  Richard  would  have 
it;  and  his  gaiety,  his  by-play,  his  princely  superiority  to 
truth  and  heroic  promise  of  overriding  all  our  laws,  his 
handsome  face,  the  lord  and  possessor  of  beauty  that  he 
looked,  as  it  were  a  star  shining  on  his  forehead,  gained 
the  old  complete  mastery  over  Ripton,  who  had  been, 
mentally  at  least,  half  patronizing  him  till  then,  because 
he  knew  more  of  London  and  life,  and  was  aware  that  his 
friend  now  depended  upon  him  almost  entirely. 

After  a  second  circle  of  the  claret,  the  hero  caught  his 
lieutenant's  eye  across  the  table,  and  said : 

"We  must  go  out  and  talk  over  that  law-business,  Rip, 
before  you  go.  Do  you  think  the  old  lady  has  any 
chance  ?" 

"Not  a  bit!"  said  Ripton,   authoritatively. 

"But  it's  worth  fighting— eh,  Rip?" 

"Oh,  certainly !"  was  Ripton's  mature  opinion. 

Richard  observed  that  Ripton's  father  seemed  doubtful. 
Ripton  cited  his  father's  habitual  caution.  Richard  made 
a  playful  remark  on  the  necessity  of  sometimes  acting  in 


206      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

opposition  to  fathers.  Ripton  agreed  to  it — in  certain 
cases. 

"Yes,  yes!  in  certain  cases,"  said  Richard. 

"Pretty  legal  morality,  gentlemen!"  Algernon  inter- 
jected;   Ilippias  adding:   "And  lay,  too!" 

The  pair  of  uncles  listened  further  to  the  fictitious  dia- 
logue, well  kept  up  on  both  sides,  and  in  the  end  desired 
a  statement  of  the  old  lady's  garrulous  case;  Hippias 
offering  to  decide  what  her  chances  were  in  law,  and  Al- 
gernon to  give  a  common-sense  judgment. 

"Rip  will  tell  you,"  said  Richard,  deferentially  signal- 
ling the  lawyer.  "I've  a  bad  hand  at  these  matters.  Tell 
them  how  it  stands,  Rip." 

Ripton  disguised  his  excessive  uneasiness  under  endeav- 
ours to  right  his  position  on  his  chair,  and,  inwardly  pray- 
ing speed  to  the  claret  jug  to  come  and  strengthen  his 
wits,  began  with  a  careless  aspect:  "Oh,  nothing!  She — 
very  curious  old  character!  She — a — wears  a  wig.  She — 
a — very  curious  old  character  indeed!  She — a — quite  tin- 
old  style.  There's  no  doing  anything  with  her!"  and 
Ripton  took  a  long  breath  to  relieve  himself  after  his 
elaborate  fiction. 

"So  it  appears,"  Hippias  commented,  and  Algernon 
asked:  "Well?  and  about  her  wig?  Somebody  stole  it  I" 
while  Richard,  whose  features  were  grim  with  suppressed 
laughter,  bade  the  narrator  continue. 

Ripton  lunged  for  the  claret  jug.  He  had  got  an  old 
lady  like  an  oppressive  bundle- on  his  brain,  and  he  was  as 
helpless  as  she  was.  In  the  pangs  of  ineffectual  author- 
ship his  ideas  shot  at  her  wig,  and  then  at  her  one  char- 
acteristic of  extreme  obstinacy,  and  tore  back  again  at  her 
wig,  but  she  would  not  be  animated.  The  obstinate  old 
thing  would  remain  a  bundle.  Law  studies  seemed  light 
in  comparison  with  this  tremendous  task  of  changing  an 
old  lady  from  a  doll  to  a  human  creature.  He  flung  off 
some  claret,  perspired  freely,  and,  with  a  mental  tribute 
to  the  cleverness  of  those  author  fellows,  recommenced : 
"Oh,  nothing!  She — Richard  knows  her  better  than  I 
do — an  old  lady — somewhere  down  in  Suffolk.  I  think 
we  had  better  advise  her  not  to  proceed.  The  expenses 
of  litigation  are  enormous!  She — I  think  we  had  better 
advise  her  to  stop  short,  and  not  make  any  scandal." 


RAPID  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  HERO       207 

"And  not  make  any  scandal !"  Algernon  took  him  up. 
"Come,  come!  there's  something  more  than  a  wig,  then?" 

Ripton  was  commanded  to  proceed,  whether  she  did  or 
no.  The  luckless  fictionist  looked  straight  at  his  pitiless 
leader,  and  blurted  out  dubiously,  "She — there's  a  daughter." 

"Born  with  effort!"  ejaculated  Hippias.  "Must  give 
her  pause  after  that!  and  I'll  take  the  opportunity  to 
stretch  my  length  on  the  sofa.  Heigho !  that's  true  what 
Austin  says :  'The  general  prayer  should  be  for  a  full 
stomach,  and  the  individual  for  one  that  works  well;  for 
on  that  basis  only  are  we  a  match  for  temporal  matters, 
and  able  to  contemplate  eternal.'  Sententious,  but  true. 
I  gave  him  the  idea,  though !  Take  care  of  your  stomachs, 
boys!  and  if  ever  you  hear  of  a  monument  proposed  to  a 
scientific  cook  or  gastronomic  doctor,  send  in  your  sub- 
scriptions. Or  say  to  him  while  he  lives,  Go  forth,  and  be 
a  Knight.  Ha!  They  have  a  good  cook  at  this  house. 
He  suits  me  better  than  ours  at  Raynham.  I  almost  wish 
I  had  brought  my  manuscript  to  town,  I  feel  so  much 
better.  Aha !  I  didn't  expect  to  digest  at  all  without  my 
regular  incentive.  I  think  I  shall  give  it  up. — What  do 
you  say  to  the  theatre  to-night,  boys!" 

Richard  shouted,  "Bravo,  uncle!" 

"Let  Mr.  Thompson  finish  first,"  said  Algernon.  "I 
want  to  hear  the  conclusion  of  the  story.  The  old  girl 
has  a  wig  and  a  daughter.  I'll  swear  somebody  runs  away 
with  one  of  the  two !  Fill  your  glass,  Mr.  Thompson,  and 
forward !" 

"So  somebody  does,"  Ripton  received  his  impetus.  "And 
they're  found  in  town  together,"  he  made  a  fresh  jerk. 
"She — a — that  is,  the  old  lady — found  them  in  company." 

"She  finds  him  with  her  wig  on  in  company!"  said 
Algernon.     "Capital!     Here's  matter  for  the  lawyers!" 

"And  you  advise  her  not  to  proceed,  under  such  circum- 
stances of  aggravation  ?"  Hippias  observed,  humorously 
twinkling  with  his  stomachic  contentment. 

"It's  the  daughter,"  Ripton  sighed,  and  surrendering  to 
pressure,  hurried  on  recklessly,  "A  runaway  match — beau- 
tiful girl ! — the  only  son  of  a  baronet — married  by  special 
licence.  A — the  point  is,"  he  now  brightened  and  spoke 
from  his  own  element,  "the  point  is  whether  the  marriage 
can  be  annulled,  as  she's  of  the  Catholic  persuasion  and 


208       THE  ORDEAL  OF   KKMIARD  FEYERKL 

he's   a  Protestant,   and    they're   both   married   under   age. 
That's  the  point." 

Having  come  to  the  point  he  breathed  extreme  relief, 
and  saw  things  more  distinctly;  not  a  little  amazed  at  his 
leader's  horrified  face. 

The  two  elders  were  making  various  absurd  inquiries, 
when  Richard  sent  his  chair  to  the  floor,  crying,  "What 
a  muddle  you're  in,  Rip!  You're  mixing  half-a-dozen 
stories  together.  The  old  lady  I  told  you  about  was  old 
Dame  Bakewell,  and  the  dispute  was  concerning  a  neigh- 
bour of  hers  who  encroached  on  her  garden,  and  I  said 
I'd  pay  the  money  to  see  her  righted!"' 

"Ah,"  said  Ripton,  humbly,  "I  was  thinking  of  the  other. 
Her  garden !     Cnbbages  don't  interest  me" 

"Here,  come  along,"  Richard  beckoned  t<>  him  savagely. 
"I'll  be  back  in  five  minutes,  uncle,"  he  nodded  coolly  to 
either. 

The  young  men  left  the  room.  In  the  hall-passage  they 
met  Berry,  dressed  to  return  to  Raynham.  Richard 
dropped  a  helper  to  the  intelligence  into  his  hand,  and 
warned  him  not  to  gossip  much  of  London.  Berry  bowed 
perfect  discreetness. 

"What  on  earth  induced  you  to  talk  about  Protestants 
and  Catholics  marrying,  Rip?"  said  Richard,  as  soon  as 
they  were  in  the  street. 

"Why,"  Ripton  answered,  "I  was  so  hard  pushed  for  it, 
'pon  my  honour,  I  didn't  know  what  to  say.  I  ain't  an 
author,  you  know;  I  can't  make  a  story.  I  was  trying  to 
invent  a  point,  and  I  couldn't  think  of  any  other,  and  I 
thought  that  was  just  the  point  likely  to  make  a  jolly 
good  dispute.  Capital  dinners  they  give  at  those  crack 
hotels.  Why  did  you  throw  it  all  upon  me?  I  didn't 
begin  on  the  old  lady." 

The  hero  mused,  "It's  odd!  It's  impossible  you  could 
have  known!  I'll  tell  you  why.  Rip!  I  wanted  to  try 
you.  You  fib  well  at  long  range,  but  you  don't  do  at  close 
quarters  and  single  combat.  You're  good  behind  walls, 
but  not  worth  a  shot  in  the  open.  I  just  see  what  you're 
fit  for.  You're  staunch — that  I  am  certain  of.  You  al- 
ways were.  Lead  the  way  to  one  of  the  parks — down  in 
that  direction.     You  know? — where  she  is!" 

Ripton    led    the    way.     His    dinner   had    prepared    this 


RAPID  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  HERO       209 

young  Englishman  to  defy  the  whole  artillery  of  estab- 
lished morals.  With  the  muffled  roar  of  London  around 
them,  alone  in  a  dark  slope  of  green,  the  hero,  leaning 
on  his  henchman,  and  speaking  in  a  harsh  clear  under- 
tone, delivered  his  explanations.  Doubtless  the  true  heroic 
insignia  and  point  of  view  will  be  discerned,  albeit  in 
common  private's  uniform. 

"They've  been  plotting  against  me  for  a  year,  Rip ! 
When  you  see  her,  you'll  know  what  it  was  to  have  such 
a  creature  taken  away  from  you.  It  nearly  killed  me. 
Never  mind  what  she  is.  She's  the  most  perfect  and  noble 
creature  God  ever  made!  It's  not  only  her  beauty — 
I  don't  care  so  much  about  that! — but  when  you've  once 
seen  her,  she  seems  to  draw  music  from  all  the  nerves 
of  your  body;  but  she's  such  an  angel.  I  worship  her. 
And  her  mind's  like  her  face.  She's  pure  gold.  There, 
you'll  see  her  to-night. 

"Well,"  he  pursued,  after  inflating  Ripton  with  this  rap- 
turous prospect,  "they  got  her  away,  and  I  recovered.  It 
was  Mister  Adrian's  work.  What's  my  father's  objection 
to  her?  Because  of  her  birth ?  She's  educated;  her  man- 
ners are  beautiful — full  of  refinement — quick  and  soft! 
Can  they  show  me  one  of  their  ladies  like  her? — she's  the 
daughter  of  a  naval  lieutenant !  Because  she's  a  Catholic  ? 
What  has  religion  to  do  with" — he  pronounced  "Love!"  a 
little  modestly — as  it  were  a  blush  in  his  voice. 

"Well,  when  I  recovered  I  thought  I  did  not  care  for 
her.  It  shows  how  we  know  ourselves!  And  I  cared 
for  nothing.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  no  blood.  I  tried  to 
imitate  my  dear  Austin.  I  wish  to  God  he  were 
here.  I  love  Austin.  He  would  understand  her.  He's 
coming  back  this  year,  and  then — but  it'll  be  too  late 
then. — Well,  my  father's  always  scheming  to  make  me 
perfect — he  has  never  spoken  to  me  a  word  about  her, 
but  I  can  see  her  in  his  eyes — he  wanted  to  give  me  a 
change,  he  said,  and  asked  me  to  come  to  town  with 
my  uncle  Hippy,  and  I  consented.  It  was  another  plot  to 
get  me  out  of  the  way!  As  I  live,  I  had  no  more  idea 
of  meeting  her  than  of  flying  to  heaven !" 

He  lifted  his  face.  "Look  at  those  old  elm  branches! 
How  they  seem  to  mix  among  the  stars ! — glittering  fruits 
of  Winter!" 


-in       T1IK  OKDl'.AI.  OK   KICHAKD  FEVEREL 

Ripton  tipped  his  comical  nose  upward,  and  was  in  duty- 
bound  to  say,  Y<>!  though  he  observed  no  connection 
between  them  and  the  narrative. 

"Well,"  the  hero  went  on,  "I  came  to  town.  There  I 
heard  she  was  coming,  too — coming  home.  It  must  have 
been  fate,  Ripton !  Heaven  forgive  me!  I  was  angry  with 
her,  and  I  thought  I  should  like  to  see  her  once — only 
once — and  reproach  her  for  being  false — for  she  never 
wrote  to  me.  And,  oh,  the  dear  angel !  what  she  must  have 
suffered ! — I  gave  my  uncle  the  slip,  and  got  to  the  railway 
she  was  coming  by.  There  was  a  fellow  going  to  meet 
her — a  farmer's  son — and,  good  God !  they  were  going  to 
try  and  make  her  marry  him!  I  remembered  it  all  then. 
A  servant  of  the  farm  had  told  me.  That  fellow  went 
to  the  wrong  station,  I  suppose,  for  we  saw  nothing  of 
him.  There  she  was — not  changed  a  bit ! — looking  lovelier 
than  ever!  And  when  she  saw  me,  I  knew  in  a  minute 
that  she  must  love  me  till  death! — You  don't  know  what 
it  is  yet,  Rip! — Will  you  believe  it? — Though  I  was  as 
sure  she  loved  me  and  had  been  true  as  steel,  as  that  I 
shall  see  her  to-night,  I  spoke  bitterly  to  her.  And  she 
bore  it  meekly — she  looked  like  a  saint.  I  told  her  there 
was  but  one  hope  of  life  for  me — she  must  prove  she  was 
true,  and  as  I  give  up  all,  so  must  she.  I  don't  know 
what  I  said.  The  thought  of  losing  her  made  me  mad. 
She  tried  to  plead  with  me  to  wait — it  was  for  my  sake, 
I  know.  I  pretended,  like  a  miserable  hypocrite,  that 
she  did  not  love  me  at  all.  I  think  I  said  shameful  things. 
Oh  what  noble  creatures  women  are!  She  hardly  had 
strength  to  move.  I  took  her  to  that  place  where  you 
found  us. — Rip !  she  went  down  on  her  knees  to  me.  I 
never  dreamed  of  anything  in  life  so  lovely  as  she  looked 
then.  Her  eyes  were  thrown  up,  bright  with  a  crowd  of 
tears — her  dark  brows  bent  together,  like  Pain  and  Beauty 
meeting  in  one;  and  her  glorious  golden  hair  swept  off 
her  shoulders  as  she  hung  forward  to  my  hands. — Could 
I  lose  such  a  prize? — If  anything  could  have  persuaded 
me,  would  not  that? — I  thought  of  Dante's  Madonna — 
Guido's  Magdalen. — Is  there  sin  in  it?  I  see  none!  And 
if  there  is,  it's  all  mine!  I  swear  she's  spotless  of  a 
thought  of  sin.  I  see  her  very  soul!  Cease  to  love  her? 
Who  dares  ask  me?     Cease  to  love  her?    Why,  I  live  on 


RAPID  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  HERO       211 

her! — To  see  her  little  chin  straining  up  from  her  throat, 
as  she  knelt  to  me! — there  was  one  curl  that  fell  across 
her  throat"  .    .   . 

Ripton  listened  for  more.  Richard  had  gone  off  in  a 
muse  at  the  picture. 

"Well  ?"  said  Ripton,  "and  how  about  that  young  farmer 
fellow?" 

The  hero's  head  was  again  contemplating  the  starry 
branches.  His  lieutenant's  question  came  to  him  after  an 
interval. 

"Young  Tom?  Why,  it's  young  Tom  Blaize — son  of 
our  old  enemy,  Rip !  I  like  the  old  man  now.  Oh !  I  saw 
nothing  of  the  fellow." 

"Lord !"  cried  Ripton,  "are  we  going  to  get  into  a  mess 
with  Blaizes  again?     I  don't  like  that!" 

His  commander  quietly  passed  his  likes  or  dislikes. 

"But  when  he  goes  to  the  train,  and  finds  she's  not 
there?"  Ripton  suggested. 

"I've  provided  for  that.  The  fool  went  to  the  South- 
east instead  of  the  South-west.  All  warmth,  all  sweet- 
ness, comes  with  the  South-west! — I've  provided  for  that, 
friend  Rip.  My  trusty  Tom  awaits  him  there,  as  if  by 
accident.  He  tells  him  he  has  not  seen  her,  and  advises 
him  to  remain  in  town,  and  go  for  her  there  to-morrow, 
and  the  day  following.  Tom  has  money  for  the  work. 
Young  Tom  ought  to  see  London,  you  know,  Rip! — like 
you.  We  shall  gain  some  good  clear  days.  And  when 
old  Blaize  hears  of  it — what  then?  I  have  her!  she's 
mine! — Besides,  he  won't  hear  for  a  week.  This  Tom 
beats  that  Tom  in  cunning,  I'll  wager.  Ha !  ha !"  the  hero 
burst  out  at  a  recollection.  "What  do  you  think,  Rip? 
My  father  has  some  sort  of  System  with  me,  it  appears, 
and  when  I  came  to  town  the  time  before,  he  took  me 
to  some  people — the  Grandisons — and  what  do  you  think? 
one  of  the  daughters  is  a  little  girl — a  nice  little  thing 
enough — very  funny — and  he  wants  me  to  wait  for  her! 
He  hasn't  said  so,  but  I  know  it.  I  know  what  he  means. 
Nobody  understands  him  but  me.  I  know  he  loves  me, 
and  is  one  of  the  best  of  men — but  just  consider! — a 
little  girl  who  just  comes  up  to  my  elbow.  Isn't  it 
ridiculous?     Did  you  ever  hear  such  nonsense?" 


212       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

Ripton  emphasized  his  opinion  that  it  certainly  was 
foolish. 

"No,  no !  The  die's  cast !"  said  Richard.  "They've  been 
plotting  for  a  year  up  to  this  day,  and  this  is  what  comes 
of  it!  If  my  father  loves  me,  he  will  love  her.  And  if 
he  loves  me,  he'll  forgive  my  acting  against  his  wishes, 
and  see  it  was  the  only  thing  to  be  done.  Come!  step 
out!  what  a  time  we've  been!"  and  away  he  went,  com- 
pelling Ripton  to  the  sort  of  strides  a  drummer-boy  has 
to  take  beside  a  column  of  grenadiers. 

Ripton  began  to  wish  himself  in  love,  seeing  that  it 
endowed  a  man  with  wind  so  that  he  could  breathe  great 
sighs,  while  going  at  a  tremendous  pace,  and  experience 
no  sensation  of  fatigue.  The  hero  was  communing  with 
the  elements,  his  familiars,  and  allowed  him  to  pant  a3 
he  pleased.  Some  keen-eyed  Kensington  urchins,  notic- 
ing the  discrepancy  between  the  pedestrian  powers  of  the 
two,  aimed  their  wit  at  Mr.  Thompson  junior's  expense. 
The  pace,  and  nothing  but  the  pace,  induced  Ripton  to 
proclaim  that  they  had  gone  too  far,  when  they  dis- 
covered that  they  had  overshot  the  mark  by  half  a  mile. 
In  the  street  over  which  stood  love's  star,  the  hero 
thundered  his  presence  at  a  door,  and  evoked  a  flying 
housemaid,  who  knew  not  Mrs.  Berry.  The  hero  attached 
significance  to  the  fact  that  his  instincts  should  have  be- 
trayed him,  for  he  could  have  sworn  to  that  house.  The 
door  being  shut  he  stood  in  dead  silence. 

"Haven't  you  got  her  card?"  Ripton  inquired,  and  heard 
that  it  was  in  the  custody  of  the  cabman.  Neither  of 
them  could  positively  bring  to  mind  the  number  of  the 
house. 

"You  ought  to  have  chalked  it,  like  that  fellow  in  the 
Forty  Thieves,"  Ripton  hazarded  a  pleasantry  which  met 
with  no  response. 

Betrayed  by  his  instincts,  the  magic  slaves  of  Love! 
The  hero  heavily  descended  the  steps. 

Ripton  murmured  that  they  were  done  for.  His  com- 
mander turned  on  him,  and  said :  "Take  all  the  houses 
on  the  opposite  side,  one  after  another.  I'll  take  these." 
With  a  wry  face  Ripton  crossed  the  road,  altogether  sub- 
dued by  Richard's  native  superiority  to  adverse  cir- 
cumstances. 


INTERCESSION  FOR  THE  HEROINE       213 

Then  were  families  aroused.  Then  did  mortals  dimly 
guess  that  something  portentous  was  abroad.  Then  were 
labourers  all  day  in  the  vineyard,  harshly  wakened  from 
their  evening's  nap.  Hope  and  Fear  stalked  the  street, 
as  again  and  again  the  loud  companion  summonses  re- 
sounded. Finally  Ripton  sang  out  cheerfully.  He  had 
Mrs.  Berry  before  him,  profuse  of  mellow  curtsies. 

Richard  ran  to  her  and  caught  her  hands:  "She's 
well  ? — upstairs  ?" 

"Oh,  quite  well !  only  a  trifle  tired  with  her  journey,  and 
flutter ing-1  ike,"  Mrs.  Berry  replied  to  Ripton  alone.  The 
lover  had  flown  aloft. 

The  wise  woman  sagely  ushered  Ripton  into  her  own 
private  parlour,  there  to  wait  till  he  was  wanted. 


CHAPTER   XXVTI 
CONTAINS  AN  INTERCESSION  FOR  THE  HEROINE 

"In  all  cases  where  two  have  joined  to  commit  an  of- 
fence, punish  one  of  the  two  lightly,"  is  the  dictum  of 
The  Pilgrim's  Scrip. 

It  is  possible  for  young  heads  to  conceive  proper  plans 
of  action,  and  occasionally,  by  sheer  force  of  will,  to  check 
the  wild  horses  that  are  ever  fretting  to  gallop  off  with 
them.  But  when  they  have  given  the  reins  and  the  whip 
to  another,  what  are  they  to  do?  They  may  go  down 
on  their  knees,  and  beg  and  pray  the  furious  charioteer 
to  stop,  or  moderate  his  pace.  Alas!  each  fresh  thing 
they  do  redoubles  his  ardour.  There  is  a  power  in  their 
troubled  beauty  women  learn  the  use  of,  and  what  wonder? 
They  have  seen  it  kindle  Ilium  to  flames  so  often!  But 
ere  they  grow  matronly  in  the  house  of  Menelaus,  they 
weep,  and  implore,  and  do  not,  in  truth,  know  how  ter- 
ribly two-edged  is  their  gift  of  loveliness.  They  resign 
themselves  to  an  incomprehensible  frenzy;  pleasant  to 
them,  because  they  attribute  it  to  excessive  love.  And  so 
the  very  sensible  things  which  they  can  and  do  say,  are 
vain. 


214      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

I  reckon  it  absurd  to  ask  thorn  to  be  quite  in  earnest. 
Are  not  those  their  own  horses  in  yonder  team?  Cer- 
tainly, if  they  were  quite  in  earnest,  they  might  soon  have 
my  gentleman  as  sober  as  a  carter.  A  hundred  different 
ways  of  disenchanting  him  exist,  and  Adrian  will  point 
you  out  one  or  two  that  shall  be  instantly  efficacious. 
For  Love,  the  charioteer,  is  easily  tripped,  while  honest 
jog-trot  Love  keeps  his  legs  to  the  end.  Granted  dear 
women  are  not  quite  in  earnest,  still  the  mere  words 
they  utter  should  be  put  to  their  good  account.  They 
do  mean  them,  though  their  hearts  are  set  the  wrong 
way.  'Tis  a  despairing,  pathetic  homage  to  the  judg- 
ment of  the  majority,  in  whose  faces  they  are  flying. 
Punish  Helen,  very  young,  lightly.  After  a  certain  age 
you  may  select  her  for  special  chastisement.  An  innocent 
with  Theseus,  with  Paris  she  is  an  advanced  incendiary. 

The  fair  young  girl  was  sitting  as  her  lover  had  left 
her;  trying  to  recall  her  stunned  senses.  Her  bonnet 
was  unremoved,  her  hands  clasped  on  her  knees;  dry  tears 
in  her  eyes.  Like  a  dutiful  slave,  she  rose  to  him.  And 
first  he  claimed  her  mouth.  There  was  a  speech,  made 
up  of  all  the  pretty  wisdom  her  wild  situation  and  true 
love  could  gather,  awaiting  him  there;  but  his  kiss  scat- 
tered it  to  fragments.  She  dropped  to  her  seat  weeping, 
and  hiding  her  shamed  cheeks. 

By  his  silence  she  divined  his  thoughts,  and  took  his 
hand  and  drew  it  to  her  lips. 

He  bent  beside  her,  bidding  her  look  at  him. 

"Keep  your  eyes  so." 

She  could  not. 

"Do  you  fear  me,  Lucy?" 

A  throbbing  pressure  answered  him. 

"Do  you  love  me,  darling?" 

She  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 

"Then  why  do  you  turn  from  me?' 

She  wept:  "O  Richard,  take  me  home!   take  me  home!" 

"Look  at  me,  Lucy!" 

Her  head  shrank  timidly  round. 

"Keep  your  eyes  on  me,  darling!     Now  speak!" 

But  she  could  not  look  and  speak  too.  The  lover  knew 
his  mastery  when  he  had  her  eyes. 

"You  wish  me  to  take  you  home?" 


INTERCESSION  FOR  THE  HEROINE       215 

She  faltered:  "O  Richard?  it  is  not  too  late." 

"You  regret  what  you  have  done  for  me?" 

"Dearest!  it  is  ruin." 

"You  weep  because  you  have  consented  to  be  mine?" 

"Not  for  me !     O  Richard !" 

"For  me  you  weep  ?     Look  at  me !     For  me  ?" 

"How  will  it  end!     O  Richard!" 

"You  weep  for  me?" 

"Dearest!     I  would  die  for  you!" 

"Would  you  see  me  indifferent  to  everything  in  the 
world?  Would  you  have  me  lost?  Do  you  think  I  will 
live  another  day  in  England  without  you  ?  I  have  staked 
all  I  have  on  you,  Lucy.  You  have  nearly  killed  me 
once.  A  second  time,  and  the  earth  will  not  be  troubled 
by  me.  You  ask  me  to  wait,  when  they  are  plotting 
against  us  on  all  sides  ?  Darling  Lucy !  look  on  me.  Fix 
your  fond  eyes  on  me.  You  ask  me  to  wait  when  here 
you  are  given  to  me — when  you  have  proved  my  faith — ■ 
when  we  know  we  love  as  none  have  loved.  Give  me  your 
eyes !     Let  them  tell  me  I  have  your  heart !" 

Where  was  her  wise  little  speech?  How  could  she 
match  such  mighty  eloquence?  She  sought  to  collect  a 
few  more  of  the  scattered  fragments. 

"Dearest!  your  father  may  be  brought  to  consent  by 
and  by,  and  then — oh !  if  you  take  me  home  now" 

The  lover  stood  up.  "He  who  has  been  arranging  that 
fine  scheme  to  disgrace  and  martyrize  you?  True,  as  I 
live !  that's  the  reason  of  their  having  you  back.  Your 
old  servant  heard  him  and  your  uncle  discussing  it.  He! 
— Lucy !  he's  a  good  man,  but  he  must  not  step  in  between 
you  and  me.     I  say  God  has  given  you  to  me." 

He  was  down  by  her  side  again,  his  arms  enfolding  her. 

She  had  hoped  to  fight  a  better  battle  than  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  she  was  weaker  and  softer. 

Ah !  why  should  she  doubt  that  his  great  love  was  the 
first  law  to  her?  Why  should  she  not  believe  that  she 
would  wreck  him  by  resisting?  And  if  she  suffered,  oh 
sweet  to  think  it  was  for  his  sake!  Sweet  to  shut  out 
wisdom;  accept  total  blindness,  and  be  led  by  him! 

The  hag  Wisdom  annoyed  them  little  further.  She 
rustled  her  garments  ominously,  and  vanished. 

"Oh,  my  own  Richard !"  the  fair  girl  just  breathed. 


216      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

He  whispered,  "Call  mo  that  name." 

She  blushed  deeply. 

"Call  me  that  name,"  he  repeated.  "You  said  it  once 
to-day." 

"Dearest !" 

"Not  that." 

"O  darling !" 

"Not  that." 

"Husband!" 

She  was  won.  The  rosy  gate  from  which  the  word  had 
issued  was  closed  with  a  seal. 

Ripton  did  not  enjoy  his  introduction  to  the  caged  bird 
of  beauty  that  night.  He  received  a  lesson  in  the  art  of 
pumping  from  the  worthy  landlady  below,  up  to  an  hour 
when  she  yawned,  and  he  blinked,  and  their  common 
candle  wore  with  dignity  the  brigand's  hat  of  midnight, 
and  cocked  a  drunken  eye  at  them  from  under  it. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

RELATES    HOW    PREPARATIONS    FOR    ACTION    WERE 
CONDUCTED    UNDER    THE    APRIL    OF    LOVERS 

Beauty,  of  course,  is  for  the  hero.  Nevertheless,  it  is 
not  always  he  on  whom  beauty  works  its  most  conquering 
influence.  It  is  the  dull  commonplace  man  into  whose 
slow  brain  she  drops  like  a  celestial  light,  and  burns 
lastingly.  The  poet,  for  instance,  is  a  connoisseur  of 
beauty :  to  the  artist  she  is  a  model.  These  gentlemen  by 
much  contemplation  of  her  charms  wax  critical.  The 
days  when  they  had  hearts  being  gone,  they  are  haply 
divided  between  the  blonde  and  the  brunette;  the  aquiline 
nose  and  the  Proserpine;  this  shaped  eye  and  that.  But 
go  about  among  simple  unprofessional  fellows,  boors, 
dunderheads,  and  here  and  there  you  shall  find  some 
barbarous  intelligence  which  has  had  just  enough  to 
conceive,  and  has  taken  Beauty  as  its  Goddess,  and  knows 
but  one  form  to  worship,  in  its  poor  stupid  fashion,  and 
would  perish  for  her.  Nay,  more:  the  man  would  devote 
all  his  days  to  her,  though  he  is  dumb  as  a  dog.     And, 


PREPARATIONS  FOR  ACTION  217 

indeed,  he  is  Beauty's  Dog.  Almost  every  Beauty  has 
her  Dog.  The  hero  possesses  her;  the  poet  proclaims  her; 
the  painter  puts  her  upon  canvas;  and  the  faithful  Old 
Dog  follows  her:  and  the  end  of  it  all  is  that  the  faith- 
ful Old  Dog  is  her  single  attendant.  Sir  Hero  is  revelling 
in  the  wars,  or  in  Armida's  bowers;  Mr.  Poet  has  spied 
a  wrinkle;  the  brush  is  for  the  rose  in  its  season.  She 
turns  to  her  Old  Dog  then.  She  hugs  him ;  and  he,  who  has 
subsisted  on  a  bone  and  a  pat  till  there  he  squats  decrepit, 
he  turns  his  grateful  old  eyes  up  to  her,  and  has  not 
a  notion  that  she  is  hugging  sad  memories  in  him :  Hero, 
Poet,  Painter,  in  one  scrubby  one!  Then  is  she  buried, 
and  the  village  hears  languid  howls,  and  there  is  a  para- 
graph in  the  newspapers  concerning  the  extraordinary 
fidelity  of  an  Old  Dog. 

Excited  by  suggestive  recollections  of  Nooredeen  and 
the  Fair  Persian,  and  the  change  in  the  obscure  monotony 
of  his  life  by  his  having  quarters  in  a  crack  hotel,  and 
living  familiarly  with  West-End  people — living  on  the  fat 
of  the  land  (which  forms  a  stout  portion  of  an  honest 
youth's  romance),  Ripton  Thompson  breakfasted  next 
morning  with  his  chief  at  half-past  eight.  The  meal  had 
been  fixed  overnight  for  seven,  but  Ripton  slept  a  great 
deal  more  than  the  nightingale,  and  (to  chronicle  his 
exact  state)  even  half-past  eight  rather  afflicted  his  new 
aristocratic  senses  and  reminded  him  too  keenly  of  law 
and  bondage.  He  had  preferred  to  breakfast  at  Alger- 
non's hour,  who  had  left  word  for  eleven.  Him,  how- 
ever, it  was  Richard's  object  to  avoid,  so  they  fell  to, 
and  Ripton  no  longer  envied  Hippias  in  bed.  Breakfast 
done,  they  bequeathed  the  consoling  information  for  Al- 
gernon that  they  were  off  to  hear  a  popular  preacher, 
and  departed. 

"How  happy  everybody  looks!"  said  Richard,  in  the 
quiet  Sunday  streets. 

"Yes— jolly!"  said  Ripton. 

"When  I'm — when  this  is  over,  I'll  see  that  they  are, 
too — as  many  as  I  can  make  happy,"  said  the  hero; 
adding  softly:  "Her  blind  was  down  at  a  quarter  to  six. 
I  think  she  slept  well !" 

"You've  been  there  this  morning?"  Ripton  exclaimed; 
and  an  idea  of  what  love  was  dawned  upon  his  dull  brain. 


218      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"Will  she  see  me,  Ricky?" 

"Yes.     She'll  see  you  to-day.     She  was  tired  last  night." 

"Positively?" 

Richard  assured  him  that  the  privilege  would  be  his. 

"H^re,"  he  said,  coming  under  some  trees  in  the  park, 
"here\  where  I  talked  to  you  last  night.  What  a  time 
it  seems!     How  I  hate  the  night!" 

On  the  way,  that  Richard  might  have  an  exalted  opinion 
of  him,  Ripton  hinted  decorously  at  a  somewhat  intimate 
and  mysterious  acquaintance  with  the  sex.  Headings  of 
certain  random  adventures  ho  gave. 

"Well!"  said  his  chief,  "why  not  marry  her?" 

Then  was  Ripton  shocked,  and  cried,  "Oh!"  and  had  a 
taste  of  the  feeling  of  superiority,  destined  that  day  to 
be  crushed  utterly. 

He  was  again  deposited  in  Mrs.  Berry's  charge  for  a 
term  that  caused  him  dismal  fears  that  the  Eair  Persian 
still  refused  to  show  her  face,  but  Richard  called  out  to 
him,  and  up  Ripton  went,  unaware  of  the  transformation 
ho  was  to  undergo.  Hero  and  Beauty  stood  together  to 
receive  him.  From  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  he  had  his 
vivaciously  agreeable  smile  ready  for  them,  and  by  the 
time  he  entered  the  room  his  cheeks  were  painfully  stiff, 
and  his  eyes  had  strained  beyond  their  exact  meaning. 
Lucy,  with  one  hand  anchored  to  her  lover,  welcomed 
him  kindly.  He  relieved  her  shyness  by  looking  so  ex- 
tremely silly.  They  sat  down,  and  tried  to  commence  a 
conversation,  but  Ripton  was  as  little  master  of  his  tongue 
as  he  was  of  his  eyes.  After  an  interval,  the  Fair  Persian 
having  done  duty  by  showing  herself,  was  glad  to  quit 
the  room.  Her  lord  and  possessor  then  turned  inquir- 
ingly to  Ripton. 

"You  don't  wonder  now,  Rip?"  he  said. 

"No,  Richard !"  Ripton  waited  to  reply  with  sufficient 
solemnity,  "indeed  I  don't!" 

He  spoke  differently;  he  looked  differently.  He  had  the 
Old  Dog's  eyes  in  his  head.  They  watched  the  door  she 
had  passed  through ;  they  listened  for  her,  as  dogs'  eyes 
do.  When  she  came  in,  bonneted  for  a  walk,  his  agita- 
tion was  dog-like.  When  she  hung  on  her  lover  timidly, 
and  went  forth,  he  followed  without  an  idea  of  envy,  or 
anything  save  the  secret  raptures   the  sight  of  her  gave 


PREPARATIONS  FOE  ACTION  219 

him,  which  are  the  Old  Dog's  own.  For  beneficent  Nature 
requites  him.  His  sensations  cannot  be  heroic,  but  they 
have  a  fulness  and  a  wagging  delight  as  good  in  their 
way.  And  this  capacity  for  humble  unaspiring  worship 
has  its  peculiar  guerdon:  When  Ripton  comes  to  think  of 
Miss  Random  now,  what  will  he  think  of  himself?  Let 
no  one  despise  the  Old  Dog.  Through  him  doth  Beauty 
vindicate  her  sex. 

It  did  not  please  Ripton  that  others  should  have  the 
bliss  of  beholding  her,  and  as,  to  his  perceptions,  every- 
body did,  and  observed  her  offensively,  and  stared,  and 
turned  their  heads  back,  and  interchanged  comments  on 
her,  and  became  in  a  minute  madly  in  love  with  her,  he 
had  to  smother  low  growls.  They  strolled  about  the 
pleasant  gardens  of  Kensington  all  the  morning,  under 
the  young  chestnut  buds,  and  round  the  windless  waters, 
talking,  and  soothing  the  wild  excitement  of  their  hearts. 
If  Lucy  spoke,  Ripton  pricked  up  his  ears.  She,  too, 
made  the  remark  that  everybody  seemed  to  look  happy, 
and  he  heard  it  with  thrills  of  joy.  "So  everybody  is, 
where  you  are!"  he  would  have  wished  to  say,  if  he 
dared,  but  was  restrained  by  fears  that  his  burning  elo- 
quence would  commit  him.  Ripton  knew  the  people  he 
met  twice.  It  would  have  been  difficult  to  persuade  him 
they  were  the  creatures  of  accident. 

From  the  Gardens,  in  contempt  of  Ripton's  frowned 
protest,  Richard  boldly  struck  into  the  park,  where  soli- 
tary carriages  were  beginning  to  perform  the  circuit. 
Here  Ripton  had  some  justification  for  his  jealous  pangs. 
The  young  girl's  golden  locks  of  hair;  her  sweet,  now 
dreamily  sad,  face;  her  gentle  graceful  figure  in  the  black 
straight  dress  she  wore;  a  sort  of  half -conventional  air 
she  had — a  mark  of  something  not  of  class,  that  was 
partly  beauty's,  partly  maiden  innocence  growing  con- 
scious, partly  remorse  at  her  weakness  and  dim  fear  of 
the  future  it  was  sowing — did  attract  the  eye-glasses. 
Ripton  had  to  learn  that  eyes  are  bearable,  but  eye-glasses 
an  abomination.  They  fixed  a  spell  upon  his  courage; 
for  somehow  the  youth  had  always  ranked  them  as 
emblems  of  our  nobility,  and  hearing  two  exquisite  eye- 
glasses, who  had  been  to  front  and  rear  several  times,  drawl 
in  gibberish  generally  imputed  to  lords,  that  his  heroine 


220      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

was  a  charming  little  creature,  just  the  size,  hut  had 
no  style, — he  was  abashed ;  he  did  not  fly  at  them  and 
tear  them.  He  became  dejected.  Beauty's  dog  is  af- 
fected by  the.  eye-glass  in  a  manner  not  unlike  the  com- 
mon animal's  terror  of  the  human  eye. 

Richard  appeared  to  hear  nothing,  or  it  was  homage 
that  he  heard.  He  repeated  to  Lucy  Diaper  Sandoe's 
verses — 

"The  cockneys  nod  to  each  other  aside, 
The  coxcombs  lift  their  glasses," 

and  projected  hiring  a  horse  for  her  to  ride  every  day  in 
the  park,  and  shine  among  the  highest. 

They  had  turned  to  the  West,  against  the  sky  glittering 
through  the  bare  trees  across  the  water,  and  the  bright- 
edged  rack.  The  lover,  his  imagination  just  then  occupied 
in  clothing  earthly  glories  in  celestial,  felt  where  his 
senses  were  sharpest  the  hand  of  his  darling  falter,  and 
instinctively  looked  ahead.  His  uncle  Algernon  was 
leisurely  jolting  towards  them  on  his  one  sound  leg.  The 
dismembered  Guardsman  talked  to  a  friend  whose  arm 
supported  him,  and  speculated  from  time  to  time  on  the 
fair  ladies  driving  by.  The  two  white  faces  passed  him 
unobserved.  Unfortunately  Ripton,  coming  behind,  went 
plump  upon  the  Captain's  live  toe — or  so  he  pretended, 
crying,  "Confound  it,  Mr.  Thompson !  you  might  have 
chosen  the  other." 

The  horrible  apparition  did  confound  Ripton,  who 
stammered  that  it  was  extraordinary. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Algernon.  "Everybody  makes  up  to 
that  fellow.     Instinct,  I  suppose!" 

He  had  not  to  ask  for  his  nephew.  Richard  turned 
to  face  the  matter. 

"Sorry  I  couldn't  wait  for  you  this  morning,  uncle," 
he  said,  with  the  coolness  of  relationship.  "I  thought  you 
never  walked  so  far." 

His  voice  was  in  perfect  tone — the  heroic  mask  ad- 
mirable. 

Algernon  examined  the  downcast  visage  at  his  side,  and 
contrived  to  allude  to  the  popular  preacher.  He  was  in- 
stantly introduced  to  Ripton's  sister.  Miss  Thompson. 

The   Captain    bowed,   smiling   melancholy   approval    of 


PREPARATIONS  FOR  ACTION  221 

his  nephew's  choice  of  a  minister.  After  a  few  stray 
remarks,  and  an  affable  salute  to  Miss  Thompson,  he 
hobbled  away,  and  then  the  three  sealed  volcanoes 
breathed,  and  Lucy's  arm  ceased  to  be  squeezed  quite 
so  much  up  to  the  heroic  pitch. 

This  incident  quickened  their  steps  homeward  to  the 
sheltering  wings  of  Mrs.  Berry.  All  that  passed  between 
them  on  the  subject  comprised  a  stammered  excuse  from 
Ripton  for  his  conduct,  and  a  good-humoured  rejoinder 
from  Richard,  that  he  had  gained  a  sister  by  it :  at  which 
Ripton  ventured  to  wish  aloud  Miss  Desborough  would 
only  think  so,  and  a  faint  smile  twitched  poor  Lucy's  lips 
to  please  him.  She  hardly  had  strength  to  reach  her  cage. 
She  had  none  to  eat  of  Mrs.  Berry's  nice  little  dinner. 
To  be  alone,  that  she  might  cry  and  ease  her  heart  of  its 
accusing  weight  of  tears,  was  all  she  prayed  for.  Kind 
Mrs.  Berry,  slipping  into  her  bedroom  to  take  off  her 
things,  found  the  fair  body  in  a  fevered  shudder,  and 
finished  by  undressing  her  completely  and  putting  her 
to  bed. 

"Just  an  hour's  sleep,  or  so,"  the  mellifluous  woman 
explained  the  case  to  the  two  anxious  gentlemen.  "A 
quiet  sleep  and  a  cup  of  warm  tea  goes  for  more  than 
twenty  doctors,  it  do — when  there's  the  flutters,"  she  pur- 
sued. "I  know  it  by  myself.  And  a  good  cry  before- 
hand's  better  than  the  best  of  medicine." 

She  nursed  them  into  a  make-believe  of  eating,  and 
retired  to  her  softer  charge  and  sweeter  babe,  reflecting, 
"Lord!  Lord!  the  three  of  'em  don't  make  fifty!  I'm  as 
old  as  two  and  a  half  of  'em,  to  say  the  least."  Mrs. 
Berry  used  her  apron,  and  by  virtue  of  their  tender  years 
took  them  all  three  into  her  heart. 

Left  alone,  neither  of  the  young  men  could  swallow 
a  morsel. 

"Did  you  see  the  change  come  over  her?"  Richard 
whispered. 

Ripton  fiercely  accused  his  prodigious  stupidity. 

The  lover  flung  down  his  knife  and  fork :  "What  could 
I  do?  If  I  had  said  nothing,  we  should  have  been 
suspected.  I  was  obliged  to  speak.  And  she  hates  a  lie! 
See!  it  has  struck  her  down.     God  forgive  me!" 

Ripton  affected  a  serene  mind:  "It  was  a  fright,  Rich- 


222       T1IK  OKDKAL  (>F  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

ard,"  he  said.  "That's  what  Mrs.  Berry  means  by  flutters. 
Those  old  women  talk  in  that  way.  You  heard  what  she 
said.  And  these  old  women  know.  I'll  tell  you  what  it 
is.  It's  this.  Richard! — it's  because  you've  got  a  fool  for 
your  friend!" 

"She  regrets  it,"  muttered  the  lover.  "Good  God!  I 
think  she  fears  me."     He  dropped  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Ripton  wTent  to  the  window,  repeating  energetically  for 
his  comfort:  "It's  because  you've  got  a  fool  for  your 
friend !" 

Sombre  grew  the  street  they  had  last  night  aroused. 
The  sun  was  buried  alive  in  cloud.  Ripton  saw  himself 
no  more  in  the  opposite  window.  He  watched  the  de- 
plorable objects  passing  on  the  pavement.  His  aristo- 
cratic visions  had  gone  like  his  breakfast.  Beauty  had 
been  struck  down  by  his  egregious  folly,  and  there  he 
stood — a  wretch ! 

Richard  came  to  him:  "Don't  mumble  on  like  that, 
Rip!"  he  said.     "Nobody  blames  you." 

"Ah!  you're  very  kind,  Richard,"  interposed  the  wretch, 
moved  at  the  face  of  misery  he  beheld. 

"Listen  to  me,  Rip !  I  shall  take  her  home  to-night. 
Yes !  If  she's  happier  away  from  me ! — do  you  think  me 
a  brute,  Ripton?  Rather  than  have  her  shed  a  tear, 
I'd! I'll  take  her  home  to-night!" 

Ripton  suggested  that  it  was  sudden;  adding  from  his 
larger  experience,  people  perhaps  might  talk. 

The  lover  could  not  understand  what  they  should  talk 
about,  but  he  said:  "If  I  give  him  who  came  for  her 
yesterday  the  clue?  If  no  one  sees  or  hears  of  me,  what 
can  they  say?  O  Rip!  I'll  give  her  up.  I'm  wrecked 
for  ever!  What  of  that?  Yes — let  them  take  her!  The 
world  in  arms  should  never  have  torn  her  from  me,  but 
when  she  cries — Yes!  all's  over.     I'll  find  him  at  once." 

He  searched  in  out-of-the-way  corners  for  the  hat  of 
resolve.     Ripton  looked  on,  wretcheder  than  ever. 

The  idea  struck  him: — "Suppose,  Richard,  she  doesn't 
want  to  go?" 

It  was  a  moment  when,  perhaps,  one  who  sided  with 
parents  and  guardians  and  the  old  wise  world,  might  have 
inclined  them  to  pursue  their  righteous  wretched  course, 
and  have  given  small  Cupid  a  smack  and  sent  him  home 


PREPARATIONS  FOR  ACTION"  223 

to  his  naughty  Mother.  Alas!  (it  is  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip 
interjecting)  women  are  the  born  accomplices  of  mis- 
chief! In  bustles  Mrs.  Berry  to  clear  away  the  refection, 
and  find  the  two  knights  helmed,  and  sees,  though  'tis 
dusk,  that  they  wear  doubtful  brows,  and  guesses  bad 
things  for  her  dear  God  Hymen  in  a  twinkling. 

"Dear!  dear!"  she  exclaimed,  "and  neither  of  you  eaten 
a  scrap!  And  there's  my  dear  young  lady  off  into  the 
prettiest  sleep  you  ever  see!" 

"Ha?"  cried  the  lover,  illuminated. 

"Soft  as  a  baby!"  Mrs.  Berry  averred.  "I  went  to 
look  at  her  this  very  moment,  and  there's  not  a  bit  of 
trouble  in  her  breath.  It  come  and  it  go  like  the  sweetest 
regular  instrument  ever  made.  The  Black  Ox  haven't 
trod  on  her  foot  yet!  Most  like  it  was  the  air  of  Lon- 
don. But  only  fancy,  if  you  had  called  in  a  doctor !  Why, 
I  shouldn't  have  let  her  take  any  of  his  quackery.  Now, 
there!" 

Ripton  attentively  observed  his  chief,  and  saw  him  doff 
his  hat  with  a  curious  caution,  and  peer  into  its  recess, 
from  which,  during  Mrs.  Berry's  speech,  he  drew  forth  a 
little  glove— dropped  there  by  some  freak  of  chance. 

"Keep  me,  keep  me,  now  you  have  me!"  sang  the  little 
glove,  and  amused  the  lover  with  a  thousand  conceits. 

"When  will  she  wake,  do  you  think,  Mrs.  Berry?"  he 
asked. 

"Oh!  we  mustn't  go  for  disturbing  her,"  said  the  guile- 
ful good  creature.  "Bless  ye !  let  her  sleep  it  out.  And  if 
you  young  gentlemen  was  to  take  my  advice,  and  go  and 
take  a  walk  for  to  get  a  appetite — everybody  should  eat ! 
it's  their  sacred  duty,  no  matter  what  their  feelings  be! 
and  I  say  it  who'm  no  chicken! — I'll  frickashee  this — 
which  is  a  chicken — against  your  return.  I'm  a  cook,  I 
can  assure  ye!" 

The  lover  seized  her  two  hands.  "You're  the  best  old 
soul  in  the  world!"  he  cried.  Mrs.  Berry  appeared  will- 
ing to  kiss  him.  "We  won't  disturb  her.  Let  her  sleep. 
Keep  her  in  bed,  Mrs.  Berry.  Will  you?  And  we'll  call 
to  inquire  after  her  this  evening,  and  come  and  see  her 
to-morrow.  I'm  sure  you'll  be  kind  to  her.  There! 
there!"  Mrs.  Berry  was  preparing  to  whimper.  "I  trust 
her  to  you,  you  see.     Good-bye,  you  dear  old  soul." 


224       THE  OKDEAL  OK  RICHARD   KEVEKEL 

He  smuggled  a  handful  of  gold  into  her  keeping,  and 
went  to  dine  with  his  uncles,  happy  and  hungry. 

Before  they  reached  the  hotel,  they  had  agreed  to  draw 
Mrs.  Berry  into  their  confidence,  telling  her  (with  em- 
bellishments) all  save  their  names,  so  that  they  might 
enjoy  the  counsel  and  assistance  of  that  trump  of  a  woman. 
and  yet  have  nothing  to  fear  from  her.  Lucy  was  to 
receive  the  name  of  Letitia,  Bipton's  youngest  and  best- 
looking  sister.  The  heartless  follow  proposed  it  in  cruel 
mockery  of  an  old  weakness  of  hers. 

"Letitia!"  mused  Kichard.  "I  like  the  name.  Both 
begin  with  L.  There's  something  soft — womanlike — in 
the  L.'s." 

Material  Bipton  remarked  that  they  looked  like  pounds 
on  paper.  The  lover  roamed  through  his  golden  groves. 
"Lucy  Feverel !  that  sounds  better !  I  wonder  where 
Balph  is.  I  should  like  to  help  him.  He's  in  love  with 
my  cousin  Clare.  He'll  never  do  anything  till  he  marries. 
No  man  can.  I'm  going  to  do  a  hundred  things  when 
it's  over.  We  shall  travel  first.  I  want  to  see  the  Alps. 
One  doesn't  know  what  the  earth  is  till  one  has  seen 
the  Alps.  What  a  delight  it  will  be  to  her!  I  fancy  I 
see  her  eyes  gazing  up  at  them. 

'And  oh,  your  dear  blue  eyes,    that  heavenward  glance 
With  kindred  beauty,  banished  humbleness, 
Past  weeping  for  mortality's  distress — 
Yet  from  your  soul  a  tear  hangs  there  in  trance, 
And  fills,  but  does  not  fall; 
Softly  I  hear  it  call 
At  heaven's  gate,  till  Sister  Seraphs  press 
To  look  on  you  their  old   love   from   the  skies: 
Those  are  the  eyes  of  Seraphs  bright  on  your  blue  eyes!' 

Beautiful !  These  lines,  Bip,  were  written  by  a  man  who 
was  once  a  friend  of  my  father's.  I  intend  to  find  him 
and  make  them  friends  again.  You  don't  care  for  poetry. 
It's  no  use  your  trying  to  swallow  it,  Bip!" 

"It  sounds  very  nice,"  said  Bipton,  modestly  shutting 
his  mouth. 

"The  Alps!  Italy!  Bome!  and  then  I  shall  go  to  the 
East,"  the  hero  continued.  "She's  ready  to  go  anywhere 
with  me,  the  dear  brave  heart!     Oh,  the  glorious  golden 


PEEPARATIONS  FOR  ACTION  225 

East!  I  dream  of  the  desert.  I  dream  I'm  chief  of  an 
Arab  tribe,  and  we  fly  all  white  in  the  moonlight  on  our 
mares,  and  hurry  to  the  rescue  of  my  darling!  And  we 
push  the  spears,  and  we  scatter  them,  and  I  come  to  the 
tent  where  she  crouches,  and  catch  her  to  my  saddle,  and 
away! — Rip!  what  a  life!" 

Ripton  strove  to  imagine  he  could  enjoy  it. 

"And  then  we  shall  come  home,  and  I  shall  lead  Austin's 
life,  with  her  to  help  me.  First  be  virtuous,  Rip!  and 
then  serve  your  country  heart  and  soul.  A  wise  man  told 
me  that.     I  think  I  shall  do  something." 

Sunshine  and  cloud,  cloud  and  sunshine,  passed  over  the 
lover.  Now  life  was  a  narrow  ring;  now  the  distances 
extended,  were  winged,  flew  illimitably.  An  hour  ago 
and  food  was  hateful.  Now  he  manfully  refreshed  his 
nature,  and  joined  in  Algernon's  encomiums  on  Miss 
Letitia  Thompson. 

Meantime  Beauty  slept,  watched  by  the  veteran  vol- 
unteer of  the  hero's  band.  Lucy  awoke  from  dreams 
which  seemed  reality,  to  the  reality  which  was  a  dream. 
She  awoke  calling  for  some  friend,  "Margaret !"  and  heard 
one  say,  "My  name  is  Bessy  Berry,  my  love!  not  Mar- 
garet." Then  she  asked  piteously  where  she  was,  and 
where  was  Margaret,  her  dear  friend,  and  Mrs.  Berry 
whispered,  "Sure  you've  got  a  dearer!" 

"Ah!"  sighed  Lucy,  sinking  on  her  pillow,  overwhelmed 
by  the  strangeness  of  her  state. 

Mrs.  Berry  closed  the  frill  of  her  nightgown  and  ad- 
justed the  bedclothes  quietly. 

Her  name  was  breathed. 

"Yes,  my  love?"  she  said. 

"Is  he  here?" 

"He's  gone,  my  dear." 

"Gone? — Oh,  where?"  The  young  girl  started  up  in 
disorder. 

"Gone,  to  be  back,  my  love!  Ah!  that  young  gentle- 
man!" Mrs.  Berry  chanted:  "Not  a  morsel  have  he  eat; 
not  a  drop  have  he  drunk!" 

"0  Mrs.  Berry!  why  did  you  not  make  him?"  Lucy 
wept  for  the  famine-struck  hero,  who  was  just  then  feed- 
ing mightily. 

Mrs.  Berry  explained  that  to  make  one  eat  who  thought 


226      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

the  darling  of  his  heart  like  to  die,  was  a  sheer  impossi- 
bility for  the  cleverest  of  women;  and  on  this  deep  truth 
Lucy  reflected,  with  her  eyes  wide  at  the  candle.  She 
wanted  one  to  pour  her  feelings  out  to.  She  slid  her 
hand  from  under  the  bedclothes,  and  took  Mrs.  Lorry's, 
and  kissed  it.  The  good  creature  required  no  further 
avowal  of  her  secret,  but  forthwith  leaned  her  consum- 
mate bosom  to  the  pillow,  and  petitioned  heaven  to  bless 
them  both ! — Then  the  little  bride  was  alarmed,  and  won- 
dered how  Mrs.  Eerry  could  have  guessed  it. 

"Why,"  said  Mrs.  Berry,  "your  love  is  out  of  your  eye-, 
and  out  of  everything  ye  do."  And  the  little  bride  won- 
dered more.  She  thought  she  had  been  so  very  cautious 
not  to  betray  it.  The  common  woman  in  them  made 
cheer  together  after  their  own  April  fashion.  Following 
which  Mrs.  Eerry  probed  for  the  sweet  particulars  of 
this  beautiful  love-match;  but  the  little  bride's  lips  were 
locked.  She  only  said  her  lover  was  above  her  in  sta- 
tion. 

"And  you're  a  Catholic,  my  dear!" 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Berry!" 

"And  him  a  Protestant." 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Berry!" 

"Dear,  dear! — And  why  shouldn't  ye  be?"  she  ejacu- 
lated, seeing  sadness  return  to  the  bridal  babe.  "So  as 
you  was  born,  so  shall  ye  be!  But  you'll  have  to  make 
your  arrangements  about  the  children.  The  girls  to  wor- 
ship with  you,  the  boys  with  him.  It's  the  same  God. 
my  dear!  You  mustn't  blush  at  it,  though  you  do  look 
so  pretty.     If  my  young  gentleman  could  see  you  now!" 

"Please,  Mrs.  Berry!"  Lucy  murmured. 

"Why,  he  will,  you  know,  my  dear!" 

"Oh,  please,  Mrs.  Berry!" 

"And  you  that  can't  bear  the  thoughts  of  it !  "Well,  I 
do  wish  there  was  fathers  and  mothers  on  both  sides  and 
dockments  signed,  and  bridesmaids,  and  a  breakfast!  but 
love  is  love,   and  ever  will  be,   in  spite  of  them." 

She  made  other  and  deeper  dives  into  the  little  heart, 
but  though  she  drew  up  pearls,  they  were  not  of  the  kind 
she  searched  for.  The  one  fact  that  hung  as  a  fruit  upon 
her  tree  of  Love,  Lucy  had  given  her;  she  would  not, 
in  fealty  to  her  lover,  reveal  its  growth  and  history,  how- 


PREPARATIONS  FOR  ACTION"  227 

ever  sadly  she  yearned  to  pour  out  all  to  this  dear  old 
Mother  Confessor. 

Her  conduct  drove  Mrs.  Berry  from  the  rosy  to  the 
autumnal  view  of  matrimony,  generally  heralded  by  the 
announcement  that  it  is  a  lottery. 

"And  when  you  see  your  ticket,"  said  Mrs.  Berry,  "you 
shan't  know  whether  it's  a  prize  or  a  blank.  And,  Lord 
knows !  some  go  on  thinking  it's  a  prize  when  it  turns  on 
'em  and  tears  'em.  I'm  one  of  the  blanks,  my  dear!  I 
drew  a  blank  in  Berry.  He  was  a  black  Berry  to  me, 
my  dear !  Smile  away !  he  truly  was,  and  I  a-prizin'  him 
as  proud  as  you  can  conceive!  My  dear!"  Mrs.  Berry 
pressed  her  hands  flat  on  her  apron.  "We  hadn't  been 
a  three  months  man  and  wife,  when  that  man — it  wasn't 
the  honeymoon,  which  some  can't  say — that  man — Yes ! 
he  kicked  me.  His  wedded  wife  he  kicked !  Ah !"  she 
sighed  to  Lucy's  large  eyes,  "I  could  have  borne  that. 
A  blow  don't  touch  the  heart,"  the  poor  creature  tapped 
her  sensitive  side.  "I  went  on  loving  of  him,  for  I'm 
a  soft  one.  Tall  as  a  Grenadier  he  is,  and  when  out  of 
service  grows  his  moustache.  I  used  to  call  him  my 
body-guardsman — like  a  Queen!  I  flattered  him  like  the 
fools  we  women  are.  For,  take  my  word  for  it,  my  dear, 
there's  nothing  here  below  so  vain  as  a  man !  That  I 
know.  But  I  didn't  deserve  it.  .  .  .  I'm  a  superior 
cook.  ...  I  did  not  deserve  that  noways."  Mrs.  Berry 
thumped  her  knee,  and  accentuated  up  her  climax:  "I 
mended  his  linen.  I  saw  to  his  adornments — he  called 
his  clothes,  the  bad  man !  I  was  a  servant  to  him,  my 
dear!  and  there — it  was  nine  months — nine  months  from 
the  day  he  swear  to  protect  and  cherish  and  that — nine 
calendar  months,  and  my  gentleman  is  off  with  another 
woman  !  Bone  of  his  bone! — pish !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Berry, 
reckoning  her  wrongs  over  vividly.  "Here's  my  ring.  A 
pretty  ornament!  What  do  it  mean?  I'm  for  tearin'  it 
off  my  finger  a  dozen  times  in  the  day.  It's  a  symbol? 
I  call  it  a  tomfoolery  for  the  dead-alive  to  wear  it,  that's 
a  widow  and  not  a  widow,  and  haven't  got  a  name  for 
what  she  is  in  any  Dixonary.  I've  looked,  my  dear,  and" 
■ — she  spread  out  her  arms — "Johnson  haven't  got  a  name 
for  me !" 

At   this    impressive   woe    Mrs.   Berry's   voice   quavered 


228      THE  OKDKAI.  <>F  K1CJIARD  FEYKKEL 

into  sob9.  Lucy  spoke  gentle  words  to  the  poor  outcast 
from  Johnson.  The  sorrows  of  Autumn  have  no  warning 
for  April.  The  little  bride,  for  all  her  tender  pity,  felt 
happier  when  she  had  heard  her  landlady's  moving  tale 
of  the  wickedness  of  man,  which  cast  in  bright  relief 
tho  glory  of  that  one  hero  who  was  hers.  Then  from  a 
short  flight  of  inconceivable  bliss,  she  fell,  shot  by  one  of 
her  hundred  Argus-eyed  fears. 

"0  Mrs.  Berry!  I'm  so  young!  Think  of  me — only 
just  seventeen!" 

Mrs.  Berry  immediately  dried  her  eyes  to  radiance. 
"Young,  my  dear!  Nonsense!  There's  no  so  much  harm 
in  being  young,  here  and  there.  1  knew  an  Irish  lady  was 
married  at  fourteen.  Her  daughter  married  close  over 
fourteen.  She  was  a  grandmother  by  thirty!  When  any 
strange  man  began,  she  used  to  ask  him  what  pattern  caps 
grandmothers  wore.  They'd  stare!  Bless  you!  the  grand- 
mother could  have  married  over  and  over  again.  It  was 
her  daughter's  fault,  not  hers,  you  know." 

"She  was  three  years  younger,"  mused  Lucy. 

"She  married  beneath  her,  my  dear.  Ran  off  with  her 
father's  bailiff's  son.  'Ah,  Berry!'  she'd  say,  'if  I  hadn't 
been  foolish,  I  should  be  my  lady  now — not  Granny!' 
Her  father  never  forgave  her — left  all  his  estates  out  of 
the  family." 

"Did  her  husband  always  love  her?"  Lucy  preferred  to 
know. 

"In  his  way,  my  dear,  he  did,"  said  Mrs.  Berry,  coming 
upon  her  matrimonial  wisdom.  "He  couldn't  help  him- 
self. If  he  left  off,  he  began  again.  She  was  so  clever, 
and  did  make  him  so  comfortable.  Cook!  there  wasn't 
such  another  cook  out  of  a  Alderman's  kitchen;  no,  in- 
deed! And  she  a  born  lady!  That  tells  ye  it's  the  duty 
of  all  women !  She  had  her  saying — 'When  the  parlour 
fire  gets  low,  put  coals  on  the  ketchen  fire!'  and  a  good 
saying  it  is  to  treasure.  Such  is  man!  no  use  in  havin' 
their  hearts  if  ye  don't  have  their  stomachs." 

Perceiving  that  she  grew  abstruse,  Mrs.  Berry  added 
briskly:  "You  know  nothing  about  that  yet,  my  dear. 
Only  mind  me  and  mark  me:  don't  neglect  your  cookery. 
Kissing  don't  last:  cookery  do!" 

Here,  with  an   aphorism  worthy   a  place   in   The  Pil- 


PREPARATIONS  FOR  ACTION"  229 

GRIm's  Scrip,  she  broke  off  to  go  posseting  for  her  dear 
invalid.  Lucy  was  quite  well ;  very  eager  to  be  allowed 
to  rise  and  be  ready  when  the  knock  should  come.  Mrs. 
Berry,  in  her  loving  considerateness  for  the  little  bride, 
positively  commanded  her  to  lie  down,  and  be  quiet,  and 
submit  to  be  nursed  and  cherished.  For  Mrs.  Berry  well 
knew  that  ten  minutes  alone  with  the  hero  could  only 
be  had  while  the  little  bride  was  in  that  unattainable 
position. 

Thanks  to  her  strategy,  as  she  thought,  her  object  was 
gained.  The  night  did  not  pass  before  she  learnt,  from 
the  hero's  own  mouth,  that  Mr.  Richards,  the  father  of 
the  hero,  and  a  stern  lawyer,  was  averse  to  his  union 
with  this  young  lady  he  loved,  because  of  a  ward  of  his, 
heiress  to  an  immense  property,  whom  he  desired  his  son 
to  espouse;  and  because  his  darling  Letitia  was  a  Cath- 
olic— Letitia,  the  sole  daughter  of  a  brave  naval  officer 
deceased,  and  in  the  hands  of  a  savage  uncle,  who  wanted 
to  sacrifice  this  beauty  to  a  brute  of  a  son.  Mrs.  Berry 
listened  credulously  to  the  emphatic  narrative,  and  spoke 
to  the  effect  that  the  wickedness  of  old  people  formed  the 
excuse  for  the  wildness  of  young  ones.  The  ceremonious 
administration  of  oaths  of  secrecy  and  devotion  over,  she 
was  enrolled  in  the  hero's  band,  which  now  numbered 
three,  and  entered  upon  the  duties  with  feminine  energy, 
for  there  are  no  conspirators  like  women.  Ripton's  lieu- 
tenancy became  a  sinecure,  his  rank  merely  titular.  He 
had  never  been  married — he  knew  nothing  about  licences, 
except  that  they  must  be  obtained,  and  were  not  diffi- 
cult— he  had  not  an  idea  that  so  many  days'  warning  must 
be  given  to  the  clergyman  of  the  parish  where  one  of  the 
parties  was  resident.  How  should  he?  All  his  fore- 
thought was  comprised  in  the  ring,  and  whenever  the 
discussion  of  arrangements  for  the  great  event  grew  par- 
ticularly hot  and  important,  he  would  say,  with  a  shrewd 
nod :  "We  mustn't  forget  the  ring,  you  know,  Mrs.  Berry !" 
and  the  new  member  was  only  prevented  by  natural 
complacence  from  shouting :  "Oh,  drat  ye !  and  your  ring, 
too."  Mrs.  Berry  had  acted  conspicuously  in  fifteen  mar- 
riages, by  banns,  and  by  licence,  and  to  have  such  an 
obvious  requisite  dinned  in  her  ears  was  exasperating. 
They  could  not  have  contracted  alliance  with  an  auxiliary 


230       THE  OKDKAL  OF  ETC  HARD  FEVEREL 

more  invaluable,  an  authority  so  profound;  ami  thoy 
acknowledged  it  to  themselves.  The  hero  marched  like 
an  automaton  at  her  bidding;  Lieutenant  Thompson  was 
rejoiced  to  perform  services  as  errand-boy  in  the  enter- 
prise. 

"It's  in  hopes  you'll  be  happier  than  me,  I  do  it,"  said 
the  devout  and  charitable  Berry.  "Marriages  is  made  in 
heaven,  they  say;  and  if  that's  the  case,  I  say  they  don't 
take  much  account  of  us  below !" 

Her  own  woful  experiences  had  been  given  to  the  hero 
in  exchange  for  his  story  of  cruel  parents. 

Richard  vowed  to  her  that  he  would  henceforth  hold 
it  a  duty  to  hunt  out  the  wanderer  from  wedded  bonds, 
and  bring  him  back  bound  and  suppliant. 

''Oh,  he'll  come!"  said  Mrs.  Berry,  pursing  prophetic 
wrinkles :  "he'll  come  of  his  own  accord.  Never  anywheres 
will  he  meet  such  a  cook  as  Bessy  Berry!  And  he  know 
her  value  in  his  heart  of  hearts.  And  I  do  believe,  when 
he  do  come,  I  shall  be  opening  these  arms  to  him  again, 
and  not  slapping  his  impidence  in  the  face — I'm  that  soft! 
I  always  was — in  matrimony,  Mr.  Richards!" 

As  when  nations  are  secretly  preparing  for  war,  the 
docks  and  arsenals  hammer  night  and  day,  and  busy  con- 
tractors measure  time  by  inches,  and  the  air  hums  around 
for  leagues  as  it  were  myriads  of  bees,  so  the  house  and 
neighbourhood  of  the  matrimonial  soft  one  resounded  in 
the  heroic  style,  and  knew  little  of  the  changes  of  light 
decreed  by  Creation.  Mrs.  Berry  was  the  general  of  the 
hour.  Down  to  Doctors'  Commons  she  expedited  the  hero, 
instructing  him  how  boldly  to  face  the  Law,  and  fib: 
for  that  the  Law  never  could  resist  a  fib  and  a  bold  face. 
Down  the  hero  went,  and  proclaimed  his  presence.  And 
lo!  the  Law  danced  to  him  its  sedatest  lovely  bear's-dance. 
Think  ye  the  Law  less  susceptible  to  him  than  flesh  and 
blood?  With  a  beautiful  confidence  it  put  the  few  familiar 
questions  to  him,  and  nodded  to  his  replies:  then  stamped 
the  bond,  and  took  the  fee.  It  must  be  an  old  vagabond 
at  heart  that  can  permit  the  irrevocable  to  go  so  eheup, 
even  to  a  hero.  For  only  mark  him  when  he  is  petitioned 
by  heroes  and  heroines  to  undo  what  he  does  so  easily ! 
That  small  archway  of  Doctors'  Commons  seems  the  eye 
of   a  needle,   through   which   the  lean   purse   has   a   way, 


PREPARATIONS  FOR  ACTIOX  231 

somehow,  of  slipping  more  readily  than  the  portly;  but 
once  through,  all  are  camels  alike,  the  lean  purse  an 
especially  big  camel.  Dispensing  tremendous  marriage  as 
it  does,  the  Law  can  have  no  conscience. 

"I  hadn't  the  slightest  difficulty,"  said  the  exulting  hero. 

"Of  course  not!"  returns  Mrs.  Berry.  "It's  as  easy,  if 
ye're  in  earnest,  as  buying  a  plum  bun." 

Likewise  the  ambassador  of  the  hero  went  to  claim  the 
promise  of  the  Church  to  be  in  attendance  on  a  certain 
spot,  on  a  certain  day,  and  there  hear  oath  of  eternal 
fealty,  and  gird  him  about  with  all  its  forces :  which  the 
Church,  receiving  a  wink  from  the  Law,  obsequiously 
engaged  to  do,  for  less  than  the  price  of  a  plum-cake. 

Meantime,  while  craftsmen  and  skilled  women,  directed 
by  Mrs.  Berry,  were  toiling  to  deck  the  day  at  hand, 
Raynham  and  Belthorpe  slept, — the  former  soundly;  and 
one  day  was  as  another  to  them.  Regularly  every  morn- 
ing a  letter  arrived  from  Richard  to  his  father,  contain- 
ing observations  on  the  phenomena  of  London;  remarks 
(mainly  cynical)  on  the  speeches  and  acts  of  Parliament; 
and  reasons  for  not  having  yet  been  able  to  call  on  the 
Grandisons.  They  were  certainly  rather  monotonous  and 
spiritless.  The  baronet  did  not  complain.  That  cold  duti- 
ful tone  assured  him  there  was  no  internal  trouble  or 
distraction.  "The  letters  of  a  healthful  physique !"  he  said 
to  Lady  Blandish,  with  sure  insight.  Complacently  he 
sat  and  smiled,  little  witting  that  his  son's  ordeal  was 
imminent,  and  that  his  son's  ordeal  was  to  be  his  own. 
Hippias  wrote  that  his  nephew  was  killing  him  by  making 
appointments  which  he  never  kept,  and  altogether  neglect- 
ing him  in  the  most  shameless  way,  so  that  his  ganglionic 
centre  was  in  a  ten  times  worse  state  than  when  he  left 
Raynham.  He  wrote  very  bitterly,  but  it  was  hard  to  feel 
compassion  for  his  offended  stomach. 

On  the  other  hand,  young  Tom  Blaize  was  not  forth- 
coming, and  had  despatched  no  tidings  whatever.  Farmer 
Blaize  smoked  his  pipe  evening  after  evening,  vastly  dis- 
turbed. London  was  a  large  place — young  Tom  might  be 
lost  in  it,  he  thought;  and  young  Tom  had  his  weaknesses. 
A  wolf  at  Belthorpe,  he  was  likely  to  be  a  sheep  in 
London,  as  yokels  have  proved.  But  what  had  become 
of  Lucy?     This  consideration  almost  sent  Farmer  Blaize 


232      THE  ORDEAL  OE  RICHA  RD  FE V E REL 

of!  to  London  direct,  and  he  would  have  pone  had  not 
his  pipe  enlightened  him.  A  young  fellow  might  play 
truant  and  get  into  a  scrape,  but  a  young  man  and  a 
young  woman  were  sure  to  be  heard  of,  unless  they  were 
acting  in  complicity.  Why,  of  course,  young  Tom  had 
behaved  like  a  man,  the  rascal!  and  married  her  out- 
right there,  while  he  had  the  chance.  It  was  a  long 
guess.  Still  it  was  the  only  reasonable  way  of  account- 
ing for  his  extraordinary  silence,  and  therefore  the  farmer 
held  to  it  that  he  had  done  the  deed.  lie  argued  as 
modern  men  do  who  think  the  hero,  the  upsetter  of 
ordinary  calculations,  is  gone  from  us.  So,  after  despatch- 
ing a  letter  to  a  friend  in  town  to  be  on  the  outlook 
for  son  Tom,  he  continued  awhile  to  smoke  his  pipe, 
rather  elated  than  not,  and  mused  on  the  shrewd  manner 
he  should  adopt  when  Master  Honeymoon  did  appear. 

Toward  the  middle  of  the  second  week  of  Richard's 
absence,  Tom  Bakewell  came  to  Raynham  for  Cassandra, 
and  privately  handed  a  letter  to  the  Eighteenth  Century, 
containing  a  request  for  money,  and  a  round  sum.  The 
Eighteenth  Century  was  as  good  as  her  word,  and  gave 
Tom  a  letter  in  return,  enclosing  a  cheque  on  her  bankers, 
amply  providing  to  keep  the  heroic  engine  in  motion  at 
a  moderate  pace.  Tom  went  back,  and  Raynham  and 
Lobourne  slept  and  dreamed  not  of  the  morrow.  The 
System,  wedded  to  Time,  slept,  and  knew  not  how  he 
had  been  outraged — anticipated  by  seven  pregnant  sea- 
sons. For  Time  had  heard  the  hero  swear  to  that  legaliz- 
ing instrument,  and  had  also  registered  an  oath.  Ah  me! 
venerable  Hebrew  Time!  he  is  unforgiving.  Half  the 
confusion  and  fever  of  the  world  comes  of  this  vendetta 
he  declares  against  the  hapless  innocents  who  have  once 
done  him  a  wrong.  They  cannot  escape  him.  They  will 
never  outlive  it.  The  father  of  jokes,  he  is  himself  no 
joke;  which  it  seems  the  business  of  men  to  discover. 

The  days  roll  round.  He  is  their  servant  now.  Mrs. 
Berry  has  a  new  satin  gown,  a  beautiful  bonnet,  a  gold 
brooch,  and  sweet  gloves,  presented  to  her  by  the  hero, 
wherein  to  stand  by  his  bride  at  the  altar  to-morrow;  and, 
instead  of  being  an  old  wary  hen,  she  is  as  much  a  chicken 
as  any  of  the  party,  such  has  been  the  magic  of  these 
articles.     Fathers  she  sees  accepting  the  facts  produced 


THE  LAST  ACT  OF  A  COMEDY  233 

for  them  by  their  children;  a  world  content  to  be  carved 
out  as  it  pleases  the  hero. 

At  last  Time  brings  the  bridal  eve,  and  is  blest  as  a 
benefactor.  The  final  arrangements  are  made;  the  bride- 
groom does  depart ;  and  Mrs.  Berry  lights  the  little  bride 
to  her  bed.  Lucy  stops  on  the  landing  where  there  is 
an  old  clock  eccentrically  correct  that  night,  'Tis  the 
palpitating  pause  before  the  gates  of  her  transfiguration. 
Mrs.  Berry  sees  her  put  her  rosy  finger  on  the  One  about 
to  strike,  and  touch  all  the  hours  successively  till  she 
comes  to  the  Twelve  that  shall  sound  "Wife"  in  her  ears 
on  the  morrow,  moving  her  lips  the  while,  and  looking 
round  archly  solemn  when  she  has  done;  and  that  sight 
so  catches  at  Mrs.  Berry's  heart  that,  not  guessing  Time 
to  be  the  poor  child's  enemy,  she  endangers  her  candle 
by  folding  Lucy  warmly  in  her  arms,  whimpering,  "Bless 
you  for  a  darling!  you  innocent  lamb!-  You  shall  be 
happy!     You  shall!" 

Old  Time  gazes  grimly  ahead. 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

IN  WHICH  THE  LAST  ACT  OF  A  COMEDY  TAKES  THE 
PLACE   OF  THE  FIRST 

Although  it  blew  hard  when  Caesar  crossed  the  Rubi- 
con, the  passage  of  that  river  is  commonly  calm ;  calm  as 
Acheron.  So  long  as  he  gets  his  fare,  the  ferryman 
does  not  need  to  be  told  whom  he  carries:  he  pulls  with 
a  will,  and  heroes  may  be  over  in  half-an-hour.  Only 
when  they  stand  on  the  opposite  bank,  do  they  see  what 
a  leap  they  have  taken.  The  shores  they  have  relinquished 
shrink  to  an  infinite  remoteness.  There  they_  have 
dreamed :  here  they  must  act.  There  lie  youth  and  irreso- 
lution: here  manhood  and  purpose.  They  are  veritably 
in  another  land:  a  moral  Acheron  divides  their  life. 
Their  memories  scarce  seem  their  own!  The  Philo- 
sophical Geography  (about  to  be  published)  observes  that 
each  man  has,  one  time  or  other,  a  little  Rubicon — 
a  clear  or  a  foul  water  to  cross.     It  is  asked  him :     "Wilt 


234      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

thou  wed  this  Fate,  and  give  up  all  behind  thee?"  And 
"I  will,"  firmly  pronounced,  speeds  him  over.  The  above- 
named  manuscripl  authority  informa  us,  that  by  far  the 

greater  number  uf  carcases  rolled  by  this  heroic  flood 
to  its  sister  stream  below,  arc  tlmse  of  fellows  who  have 
repented  their  pledge,  and  have  tried  to  swim  back  to  the 
bank  they  have  blotted  out.  For  though  every  man  of 
us  may  lie  a  hero  for  one  fatal  minute,  very  few  remain 
so  after  a  day's  march  even:  and  who  wonders  that 
Madam  Fate  is  indignant,  and  wears  the  features  of  the 
terrible  Universal  Fate  to  him?  Fail  before  her,  either 
in  heart  or  in  act,  and  lo,  how  the  alluring  loves  in  her 
visage  wither  and  sicken  to  what  it  is  modelled  on!  Be 
your  Rubicon  big  or  small,  clear  or  foul,  it  is  the  same: 
you  shall  not  return.  On — or  to  Acheron! — I  subscribe 
to  that  saying  of  The  Pilorim's  Scrip: 

''The  danger  of  a  little  knowledge  of  things  is  disput- 
able:  bnt  beware  the  little  knowledge  of  one's  self!'' 

Richard  Feverel  was  now  crossing  the  River  of  his  Or- 
deal. Already  the  mists  were  stealing  over  the  land  he 
had  left:  his  life  was  cut  in  two,  and  he  breathed  hut  the 
air  that  met  his  nostrils.  His  father,  his  father's  love, 
his  boyhood  and  ambition,  were  shadowy.  His  poetic 
dreams  had  taken  a  living  attainable  shape.  He  had  a 
distincter  impression  of  the  Autumnal  Berry  and  her 
household  than  of  anything  at  Raynham.  And  yet  the 
young  man  loved  his  father,  loved  his  home:  and  1  dare- 
say Caesar  loved  Rome:  but  whether  be  did  or  no,  CVsar 
when  he  killed  the  Republic  was  quite  bald,  and  the  hero 
we  are  dealing  with  is  scarce  beginning  to  feel  his 
despotic  moustache.  Did  he  know  what  he  was  made  of? 
Doubtless,  nothing  at  all.  But  honest  passion  has  an 
instinct  that  can  be  safer  than  conscious  wisdom.  He 
was  an  arrow  drawn  to  the  head,  living  to  the  bow.  His 
audacious  mendacities  and  subterfuges  did  not  strike 
him  as  in  any  way  criminal;  for  he  was  perfectly  sure 
thai  the  winning  and  securing  of  Lucy  would  in  the  end 
be  boisterously  approved  of,  and  in  that  case,  were  not 
the  means  justified?  Not  that  he  took  trouble  to  argue 
thus,  as  older  heroes  and  self-convicting  villains  are  in 
the  habit  of  doing,  to  deduce  a  clear  conscience.  Con- 
science and  Lucy  went  together. 


THE  LAST  ACT  OF  A  COMEDY  235 

It  was  a  soft  fair  day.  The  Rubicon  sparkled  in  the 
morning  sun.  One  of  those  days  when  London  embraces 
the  prospect  of  summer,  and  troops  forth  all  its  babies. 
The  pavement,  the  squares,  the  parks,  were  early  alive 
with  the  cries  of  young  Britain.  Violet  and  primrose 
girls,  and  organ  boys  with  military  monkeys,  and  sys- 
tematic bands  very  determined  in  tone  if  not  in  tune, 
filled  the  atmosphere,  and  crowned  the  blazing  procession 
of  omnibuses,  freighted  with  business  men,  Cityward, 
where  a  column  of  reddish  brown  smoke, — blown  aloft 
by  the  South-west,  marked  the  scene  of  conflict  to  which 
these  persistent  warriors  repaired.  Richard  had  seen 
much  of  early  London  that  morning.  His  plans  were 
laid.  He  had  taken  care  to  ensure  his  personal  liberty 
against  accidents,  by  leaving  his  hotel  and  his  injured 
uncle  Hippias  at  sunrise.  To-day  or  to-morrow  his  father 
was  to  arrive.  Farmer  Blaize,  Tom  Bakewell  reported 
to  him,  was  raging  in  town.  Another  day  and  she  might 
be  torn  from  him:  but  to-day  this  miracle  of  creation 
would  be  his,  and  then  from  those  glittering  banks  yon- 
der, let  them  summon  him  to  surrender  her  who  dared! 
The  position  of  things  looked  so  propitious  that  he 
naturally  thought  the  powers  waiting  on  love  conspired  in 
his  behalf.  And  she,  too — since  she  must  cross  this  river, 
she  had  sworn  to  him  to  be  brave,  and  do  him  honour, 
and  wear  the  true  gladness  of  her  heart  in  her  face.  With- 
out a  suspicion  of  folly  in  his  acts,  or  fear  of  results, 
Richard  strolled  into  Kensington  Gardens,  breakfasting 
on  the  foreshadow  of  his  great  joy,  now  with  a  vision  of 
his  bride,  now  of  the  new  life  opening  to  him.  Mountain 
masses  of  clouds,  rounded  in  sunlight,  swung  up  the  blue. 
The  flowering  chestnut  pavilions  overhead  rustled  and 
hummed.  A  sound  in  his  ears  as  of  a  banner  unfolding 
in  the  joyful  distance  lulled  him. 

He  was  to  meet  his  bride  at  the  church  at  a  quarter 
past  eleven.  His  watch  said  a  quarter  to  ten.  He  strolled 
on  beneath  the  long-stemmed  trees  toward  the  well  dedi- 
cated to  a  saint  obscure.  Some  people  were  drinking  at 
the  well.  A  florid  lady  stood  by  a  younger  one,  who  had 
a  little  silver  mug  half-way  to  her  mouth,  and  evinced 
undisguised  dislike  to  the  liquor  of  the  salutary  saint. 

"Drink,  child!"  said  the  maturer  lady.     "That  is  only 


23G      THE  OEDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

your  second  muR.  T  insist  \ipon  your  drinking  throe  full 
ones  every  morning  we're  in  town.  Your  constitution 
positively  requires  iron!" 

"But,  mama,"  the  other  expostulated,  "it's  so  nasty.  I 
shall  be  sick."' 

"Drink!"  was  the  harsh  injunction.  "Nothing  to  the 
German  waters,  my  dear.  Here,  let  mo  taste."  She  took 
the  mug  and  gave  it  a  flying  kiss.  "I  declare  I  think  it 
almost  nice — not  at  all  objectionable.  Pray,  taste  it,"  she 
said  to  a  gentleman  standing  below  them  to  act  as  cup- 
bearer. 

An  unmistakable  cis-Rubicon  voice  replied:  "Cer- 
tainly, if  it's  good  fellowship;  though  I  confess  I  don't 
think  mutual  sickness  a  very  engaging  ceremony." 

Can  one  never  escape  irom  ones  relatives?  Richard 
ejaculated  inwardly. 

Without  a  doubt  those  people  were  Mrs.  Doria,  Clare, 
and  Adrian.     He  had  them  under  his  eyes. 

Clare,  peeping  up  from  her  constitutional  dose  to  make 
sure  no  man  was  near  to  see  the  possible  consequence  of 
it,  was  the  first  to  perceive  him.     Her  hand  dropped. 

"Now,  pray,  drink,  and  do  not  fuss!"  said  Mrs.  Doria. 

"Mama !"  Clare  gasped. 

Richard  came  forward  and  capitulated  honourably, 
since  retreat  was  out  of  the  question.  Mrs.  Doria  swam 
to  meet  him:  "My  own  boy!  My  dear  Richard!"  profuse 
of  exclamations.  Clare  shyly  greeted  him.  Adrian  kept 
in  the  background. 

"Why,  we  were  coming  for  you  to-day,  Richard,"  said 
Mrs.  Doria,  smiling  effusion;  and  rattled  on,  "We  want 
another  cavalier.  This  is  delightful!  My  dear  nephew! 
You  have  grown  from  a  boy  to  a  man.  And  there's  down 
on  his  lip!  And  what  brings  you  here  at  such  an  hour 
in  the  morning?  Poetry,  I  suppose!  Here,  take  my  arm, 
child. — Clare!  finish  that  mug  and  thank  your  cousin  for 
sparing  you  the  third.  I  always  bring  her,  when  we  are 
by  a  chalybeate,  to  take  the  waters  before  breakfast.  We 
have  to  get  up  at  unearthly  hours.  Think,  my  dear  boy! 
Mothers  are  sacrifices!  And  so  you've  been  alone  a  fort- 
night with  your  agreeable  uncle!  A  charming  time  of 
it  you  must  have  had!  Poor  Hippias!  what  may  be  his 
last  nostrum?" 


THE  LAST  ACT  OF  A  COMEDY  237 

"Nephew!"  Adrian  stretched  his  head  round  to  the 
couple.  "Doses  of  nephew  taken  morning  and  night  four- 
teen days!  And  he  guarantees  that  it  shall  destroy  an 
iron  constitution  in  a  month." 

Richard  mechanically  shook  Adrian's  hand  as  he  spoke. 

"Quite  well,  Ricky?" 

"Yes:  well  enough,"  Richard  answered. 

"Well?"  resumed  his  vigorous  aunt,  walking  on  with 
him,  while  Clare  and  Adrian  followed.  "I  really  never 
saw  you  looking  so  handsome.  There's  something  about 
your  face — look  at  me — you  needn't  blush.  You've  grown 
to  an  Apollo.  That  blue  buttoned-up  frock  coat  becomes 
you  admirably — and  those  gloves,  and  that  easy  neck-tie. 
Your  style  is  irreproachable,  quite  a  style  of  your  own! 
And  nothing  eccentric.  You  have  the  instinct  of  dress. 
Dress  shows  blood,  my  dear  boy,  as  much  as  anything 
else.  Boy! — you  see,  I  can't  forget  old  habit's.  You 
were  a  boy  when  I  left,  and  now! — Do  you  see  any 
change  in  him,  Clare?"  she  turned  half  round  to  her 
daughter. 

"Richard  is  looking  very  well,  mama,"  said  Clare, 
glancing  at  him  under  her  eyelids. 

"I  wish  I  could  say  the  same  of  you,  my  dear. — Take 
my  arm,  Richard.  Are  you  afraid  of  your  aunt?  I  want 
to  get  used  to  you.  Won't  it  be  pleasant,  our  being  all  in 
town  together  in  the  season?  How  fresh  the  Opera  will 
be  to  you !  Austin,  I  hear,  takes  stalls.  You  can  come 
to  the  Forey's  box  when  you  like.  We  are  staying  with 
the  Foreys  close  by  here.  I  think  it's  a  little  too  far 
out,  you  know;  but  they  like  the  neighbourhood.  This 
is  what  I  have  always  said:  Give  him  more  liberty! 
Austin  has  seen  it  at  last.  How  do  you  think  Clare 
looking?" 

The  question  had  to  be  repeated.  Richard  surveyed 
his  cousin  hastily,  and  praised  her  looks. 

"Pale!"  Mrs.  Doria  sighed. 

"Rather  pale,  aunt." 

"Grown  very  much — don't  you  think,  Richard?" 

"Very  tall  girl  indeed,  aunt." 

"If  she  had  but  a  little  more  colour,  my  dear  Richard ! 
I'm  sure  I  give  her  all  the  iron  she  can  swallow,  but  that 
pallor  still  continues.    I  think  she  does  not  prosper  away 


238      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

from  her  old  companion.  She  was  accustomed  to  look 
up  to  you,  Richard" 

"Did  you  get  Ralph's  letter,  aunt!"  Richard  interrupted 
her. 

"Absurd!"  Mrs.  Doria  pressed  his  arm.  "The  non- 
sense of  a  boy !  Why  did  you  undertake  to  forward  such 
stuff*" 

"I'm  certain  he  loves  her,"  said  Richard,  in  a  serious 
way. 

The  maternal  eyes  narrowed  on  him.  "Life,  my  dear 
Richard,  is  a  game  of  cross-purposes,"  she  observed,  drop- 
ping her  fluency,  and  was  rather  angered  to  hear  him 
laugh.  He  excused  himself  by  saying  that  she  spoke  so 
like  his  father. 

"You  breakfast  with  us,"  she  freshened  off  again.  "The 
Foreys  wish  to  see  you;  the  girls  are  dying  to  know  you. 
Do  you  know,  you  have  a  reputation  on  account  of  that" 
— she  crushed  an  intruding  adjective — "System  you  were 
brought  up  on.  You  mustn't  mind  it.  For  my  part,  I 
think  you  look  a  credit  to  it.  Don't  be  bashful  with  young 
women,  mind !  As  much  as  you  please  with  the  old  ones. 
You  know  how  to  behave  among  men.  There  you  have 
your  Drawing-room  Guide!  I'm  sure  I  shall  be  proud 
of  you.    Am  I  not?" 

Mrs.  Doria  addressed  his  eyes  coaxingly. 

A  benevolent  idea  struck  Richard,  that  he  might  em- 
ploy the  minutes  to  spare,  in  pleading  the  case  of  poor 
Ralph;  and,  as  he  was  drawn  along,  he  pulled  out  his 
watch  to  note  the  precise  number  of  minutes  he  could 
dedicate  to  this  charitable  office. 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Mrs.  Doria.  "You  want  manners, 
my  dear  boy.  I  think  it  never  happened  to  me  before 
that  a  man  consulted  his  watch  in  my  presence." 

Richard  mildly  replied  that  he  had  an  engagement  at  f 
particular  hour,  up  to  which  he  was  her  servant. 

"Fiddlededee!"  the  vivacious  lady  sang.  "Now  I've  got 
you,  I  mean  to  keep  you.  Oh!  I've  hoard  all  about  you. 
This  ridiculous  indifference  that  your  father  makes  so 
much  of !  Why,  of  course,  you  wanted  to  see  the  world ! 
A  strong,  healthy  young  man  shut  up  all  his  life  in  a 
lonely  house — no  friends,  no  society,  no  amusements  but 
those  of  rustics!     Of  course  you  were  indifferent!     Your 


THE  LAST  ACT  OF  A  COMEDY  239 

intelligence  and  superior  mind  alone  saved  you  from 
becoming  a  dissipated  country  boor. — Where  are  the 
others  ?" 

Clare  and  Adrian  came  up  at  a  quick  pace. 

"My  damozel  dropped  something,"  Adrian  explained. 

Her  mother  asked  what  it  was. 

"Nothing,  mama,"  said  Clare,  demurely,  and  they  pro- 
ceeded as  before. 

Overborne  by  his  aunt's  fluency  of  tongue,  and  occu- 
pied in  acute  calculation  of  the  flying  minutes,  Eichard 
let  many  pass  before  he  edged  in  a  word  for  Ralph. 
When  he  did,  Mrs.  Doria  stopped  him  immediately. 

"I  must  tell  you,  child,  that  I  refuse  to  listen  to  such 
rank  idiotcy." 

"It's  nothing  of  the  kind,  aunt." 

"The  fancy  of  a  boy." 

"He's  not  a  boy.    He's  half-a-year  older  than  I  am!" 

"You  silly  child!  The  moment  you  fall  in  love,  you 
all  think  yourselves  men." 

"On  my  honour,  aunt!  I  believe  he  loves  her  thor- 
oughly." 

"Did  he  tell  you  so,  child?" 

"Men  don't  speak  openly  of  those  things,"  said  Richard. 

"Boys  do,"  said  Mrs.  Doria. 

"But  listen  to  me  in  earnest,  aunt.  I  want  you  to  be 
kind  to  Ralph.  Don't  drive  him  to — You  may  be  sorry 
for  it.  Let  him — do  let  him  write  to  her,  and  see  her.  I 
believe  women  are  as  cruel  as  men  in  these  things." 

"I  never  encourage  absurdity,  Richard." 

"What  objection  have  you  to  Ralph,  aunt?" 

"Oh,  they're  both  good  families.  It's  not  that  absurdity, 
Richard.  It  will  be  to  his  credit  to  remember  that  his 
first  fancy  wasn't  a  dairymaid."  Mrs.  Doria  pitched  her 
accent  tellingly.     It  did  not  touch  her  nephew. 

"Don't  you  want  Clare  ever  to  marry?"  He  put  the 
last  point  of  reason  to  her. 

Mrs.  Doria  laughed.  "I  hope  so,  child.  We  must  find 
some  comfortable  old  gentleman  for  her." 

"What  infamy!"  mutters  Richard. 

"And  .1  engage  Ralph  shall  be  ready  to  dance  at  her 
wedding,  or  eat  a  hearty  breakfast — We  don't  dance  at 
weddings  now,  and  very  properly.     It's  a  horrid  sad  busi- 


240      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

ness,  not  to  be  treated  with  levity. — Ts  that  his  regiment?" 
she  said,  as  they  passed  out  of  the  hussar-sentinelled  gar- 
dens. "Tush,  tush,  child;-  Master  Ralph  will  recover,  as 
— hem!  others  have  done.    A  little  headache — you  call  it 

heartache — and  up  you  rise  again,  looking  better  than 
ever.  No  doubt,  to  have  a  grain  of  sense  forced  into 
your  brains,  you  poor  dear  children!  must  be  painful. 
Girls  sutler  as  much  as  boys,  I  assure  you.  .Mure,  for 
their  heads  are  weaker,  and  their  appetites  less  constant. 
Do  I  talk  like  your  father  now!1  Whatever  makes  the 
boy  fidget  at  his  watch  so  ?" 

Richard  stopped  short.     Time  spoke  urgently. 

"I  must  go,"  he  said. 

His  face  did  not  seem  good  for  trifling.  Mrs.  Doria 
would  triile  in  spite. 

"Listen,  Clare!  Richard  is  going.  He  says  he  has  an 
engagement.  What  possible  engagement  can  a  young 
man  have  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning? — unless  it's 
to  be  married!"  Mrs.  Doria  laughed  at  the  ingenuity  of 
her  suggestion. 

"Is  the  church  handy,  Ricky?"  said  Adrian.  "You  can 
still  give  us  half-an-hour  if  it  is.  The  celibate  hours 
strike  at  Twelve."    And  he  also  laughed  in  his  fashion. 

"Won't  you  stay  with  us,  Richard?"  Clare  asked.  She 
blushed  timidly,  and  her  voice  shook. 

Something  indefinite — a  sharp-edged  thrill  in  the  tones 
made  the  burning  bridegroom  speak  gently  to  her. 

"Indeed,  I  would,  Clare;  I  should  like  to  please  you. 
but  I  have  a  most  imperative  appointment — that  is,  I 
promised — I  must  go.     I  shall  see  you  again" 

Mrs.  Doria  took  forcible  possession  of  him.  "Now,  do 
come,  and  don't  waste  words.  I  insist  upon  your  having 
some  breakfast  first,  and  then,  if  you  really  must  go,  you 
shall.  Look!  there's  the  house.  At  least  you  will  accom- 
pany your  aunt  to  the  door." 

Richard  conceded  this.  She  little  imagined  what  she 
required  of  him.  Two  of  his  golden  minutes  melted  into 
nothingness.  They  were  growing  to  be  jewels  of  price, 
one  by  one  more  and  more  precious  as  they  ran,  and  now 
so  costly-rare — rich  as  his  blood!  not  to  kindest  relations. 
dearest  friends,  could  he  give  another.  The  die  is  cast! 
Ferryman !  push  off. 


THE  LAST  ACT  OF  A  COMEDY  241 

"Good-bye!"  he  cried,  nodding  bluffly  at  the  three  a3 
one,  and  fled. 

They  watched  his  abrupt  muscular  stride  through  the 
grounds  of  the  house.  He  looked  like  resolution  on  the 
march.  Mrs.  Doria,  as  usual  with  her  out  of  her  brother's 
hearing,  began  rating  the  System. 

"See  what  becomes  of  that  nonsensical  education !  The 
boy  really  does  not  know  how  to  behave  like  a  common 
mortal.  He  has  some  paltry  appointment,  or  is  mad  after 
some  ridiculous  idea  of  his  own,  and  everything  must  be 
sacrificed  to  it!  That's  what  Austin  calls  concentration 
of  the  faculties.  I  think  it's  more  likely  to  lead  to  down- 
right insanity  than  to  greatness  of  any  kind.  And  so  I 
shall  tell  Austin.  It's  time  he  should  be  spoken  to  seri- 
ously about  him." 

''He's  an  engine,  my  dear  aunt,"  said  Adrian.  "He 
isn't  a  boy,  or  a  man,  but  an  engine.  And  he  appears  to 
have  been  at  high  pressure  since  he  came  to  town — out 
all  day  and  half  the  night." 

"He's  mad!"  Mrs.  Doria  interjected. 

"Not  at  all.  Extremely  shrewd  is  Master  Ricky,  and 
carries  as  open  an  eye  ahead  of  him  as  the  ships  before 
Troy.  He's  more  than  a  match  for  any  of  us.  He  is  for 
me,  I  confess." 

"Then,"  said  Mrs.  Doria,  "he  does  astonish  me!" 

Adrian  begged  her  to  retain  her  astonishment  till  the 
right  season,  which  would  not  be  long  arriving. 

Their  common  wisdom  counselled  them  not  to  tell  the 
Foreys  of  their  hopeful  relative's  ungracious  behaviour. 
Clare  had  left  them.  When  Mrs.  Doria  went  to  her  room 
her  daughter  was  there,  gazing  down  at  something  in  her 
hand,  which  she  guiltily  closed. 

In  answer  to  an  inquiry  why  she  had  nctf  gone  to  take 
off  her  things,  Clare  said  she  was  not  hungry.  Mrs.  Doria 
lamented  the  obstinacy  of  a  constitution  that  no  quantity 
of  iron  could  affect,  and  eclipsed  the  looking-glass,  say^ 
ing:  "Take  them  off  here,  child,  and  learn  to  assist 
yourself." 

She  disentangled  her  bonnet  from  the  array  of  hev 
spreading  hair,  talking  of  Richard,  and  his  handsoma 
appearance,  and  extraordinary  conduct.  Clare  kept 
opening  and  shutting  her  hand,  in  an  attitude  half  p6Xi^ 


242      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

si\e,  half-listless.  Sin-  did  not  stir  to  undress.  A  joyous 
dimple  hung  in  one  pale  cheek,  and  she  drew  long,  even 
breaths. 

Mrs.  Doria,  assured  by  the  glass  that  she  was  ready  to 
show,  came  to  her  daughter. 

"Now,  really,"  she  said,  "you  are  too  helpless,  my  dear. 
You  cannot  do  a  thing  without  a  dozen  women  at  your 
elbow.  What  will  become  of  you?  You  will  have  to 
marry  a  millionaire. — What's  the  matter  with  you,  child?" 

Clare  undid  her  tight-shut  fingers,  as  if  to  some  attrac- 
tion of  her  eyes,  and  displayed  a  small  gold  hoop  on  the 
palm  of  a  green  glove. 

"A  wedding-ring!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Doria,  inspecting 
the  curiosity  most  daintily. 

There  on  Clare's  pale  green  glove  lay  a  wedding-ring:! 

Rapid  questions  as  to  where,  when,  how,  it  was  found. 
beset  Clare,  who  replied:  "In  the  Gardens,  mama.  This 
morning.     When  T  was  walking  behind   Richard." 

"Are  you  sure  he  did  not  give  it  you,  Clare?" 

"Oh  no,  mama!  he  did  not  give  it  me!" 

"Of  course  not!  only  he  does  such  absurd  things!  I 
thought,  perhaps — these  boys  are  so  exceedingly  ridicu- 
lous!" Mrs.  Doria  had  an  idea  that  it  might  have  been 
concerted  between  the  two  young  gentlemen,  Richard  and 
Ralph,  that  the  former  should  present  this  token  of 
hymeneal  devotion  from  the  latter  to  the  young  lady  of 
his  love;  but  a  moment's  reflection  exonerated  boys  even 
from  such  preposterous  behaviour. 

"Now,  I  wonder,"  she  speculated  on  Clare's  cold  face, 
"I  do  wonder  whether  it's  lucky  to  find  a  wedding-ring. 
What  very  quick  eyes  you  have,  my  darling!"  Mrs.  Doria 
kissed  her.  She  thought  it  must  be  lucky,  and  the  cir- 
cumstance made  her  feel  tender  to  her  child.  Her  child 
did  not  move  to  the  kiss. 

"Let's  see  whether  it  fits,"  said  Mrs.  Doria,  almost  in- 
fantine with  surprise  and  pleasure. 

Clare  sull'ered  her  glove  to  be  drawn  off.  The  ring  slid 
down  her  long  thin  finger,  and  settled  comfortably. 

"It  does!"  Mrs.  Doria  whispered.  To  find  a  wedding- 
ring  is  open  to  any  woman;  but  to  find  a  wedding-ring 
that  fits  may  well  cause  a  superstitious  emotion.  More- 
over, Uiat  it  should  be  found  while  walking  in  the  neigh- 


THE  LAST  ACT  OF  A  COMEDY  24-5 

bourhood  of  the  identical  youth  whom  a  mother  has 
destined  for  her  daughter,  gives  significance  to  the  gentle 
perturbation  of  ideas  consequent  on  such  a  hint  from 
Fortune. 

"It  really  fits!"  she  pursued.  "Now  I  never  pay  any 
attention  to  the  nonsense  of  omens  and  that  kind  of 
thing"  (had  the  ring  been  a  horseshoe  Mrs.  Doria  would 
have  picked  it  up  and  dragged  it  obediently  home),  "but 
this,  I  must  say,  is  odd — to  find  a  ring  that  fits ! — singu- 
lar! It  never  happened  to  me.  Sixpence  is  the  most  I 
ever  discovered,  and  I  have  it  now.  Mind  you  keep  it, 
Clare — this  ring.  And,"  she  laughed,  "offer  it  to  Richard 
when  he  comes;  say,  you  think  he  must  have  dropped  it." 

The  dimple  in  Clare's  cheek  quivered. 

Mother  and  daughter  had  never  spoken  explicitly  of 
Richard.  Mrs.  Doria,  by  exquisite  management,  had  con- 
trived to  be  sure  that  on  one  side  there  would  be  no 
obstacle  to  her  project  of  general  happiness,  without,  as 
she  thought,  compromising  her  daughter's  feelings  un- 
necessarily. It  could  do  no  harm  to  an  obedient  young 
girl  to  hear  that  there  was  no  youth  in  the  world  like  a 
certain  youth.  He  the  prince  of  his  generation,  she  might 
softly  consent,  when  requested,  to  be  his  princess;  and 
if  never  requested  (for  Mrs.  Doria  envisaged  failure), 
she  might  easily  transfer  her  softness  to  squires  of  lower 
degree.  Clare  had  always  been  blindly  obedient  to  her 
mother  (Adrian  called  them  Mrs.  Doria  Battledoria  and 
the  fair  Shuttlecockiana),  and  her  mother  accepted  in 
this  blind  obedience  the  text  of  her  entire  character.  It 
is  difficult  for  those  who  think  very  earnestly  for  their 
children  to  know  when  their  children  are  thinking  on 
their  own  account.  The  exercise  of  their  volition  we 
construe  as  revolt.  Our  love  does  not  like  to  be  invalided 
and  deposed  from  its  command,  and  here  I  think  yonder 
old  thrush  on  the  lawn  who  has  just  kicked  the  last  of  her 
lank  offspring  out  of  the  nest  to  go  shift  for  itself,  much 
the  kinder  of  the  two,  though  sentimental  people  do  shrug 
their  shoulders  at  these  unsentimental  acts  of  the  crea- 
tures who  never  wander  from  nature.  Now,  excess  of 
obedience  is,  to  one  who  manages  most  exquisitely,  as  bad 
as  insurrection.  Happily  Mrs.  Doria  saw  nothing  in  her 
daughter's  manner  save  a  want  of  iron.     Her  pallor,  her 


244      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

lassitude,  tho  tremulous  nerves  in  her  face,  exhibited  an 
imperious  requirement  of  the  mineral. 

"The  reason  why  n  and  women  arc  mysterious  to  us, 

and  prove  disappointing,"  we  learn  from  The  Pilgrim's 
Scrip,  "is,  that  we  will  read  them  from  our  own  book; 
just  as  we  are  perplexed  by  reading  ourselves  from  theirs." 

Mrs.  Doria  read  her  daughter  from  her  own  book,  and 
she  was  gay;  she  laughed  with  Adrian  at  the  breakfast- 
table,  and  mock-seriously  joined  in  his  jocose  assertion 
that  Clare  was  positively  and  by  all  hymeneal  auspices 
betrothed  to  the  owner  of  that  ring,  be  he  who  he  may, 
and  must,  whenever  he  should  choose  to  come  and  claim 
her,  give  her  hand  to  him  (for  everybody  agreed  the 
owner  must  be  masculine,  as  no  woman  would  drop  a 
wedding-ring),  and  follow  him  whither  he  listed  all  the 
world  over.  Amiable  giggling  Forey  girls  called  Clare, 
The  Betrothed.  Dark  man,  or  fair?  was  mooted.  Adrian 
threw  off  the  first  strophe  of  Clare's  fortune  in  burlesque 
rhymes,  with  an  insinuating  gipsy  twang.  Her  aunt 
Forey  warned  her  to  have  her  dresses  in  readiness.  Her 
grandpapa  Forey  pretended  to  grumble  at  bridal  presents 
being  expected  from  grandpapas.  This  one  smelt  orange- 
flower,  another  spoke  solemnly  of  an  old  shoe.  The  find- 
ing of  a  wedding-ring  was  celebrated  through  all  the  pal- 
pitating accessories  and  rosy  ceremonies  involved  by  that 
famous  instrument.  In  the  midst  of  the  general  hilarity, 
Clare  showed  her  deplorable  want  of  iron  by  bursting  into 

Did  the  poor  mocked-at  heart  divine  what  might  be  then 
enacting?     Perhaps,  dimly,   as  we  say:   that  is,  without 

eyes.  . 

At  an  altar  stand  two  fair  young  creatures,  ready  with 
their  oaths.  They  are  asked  to  fix  all  time  to  the  moment, 
and  they  do  so.  If  there  is  hesitation  at  the  immense 
undertaking,  it  is  but  maidenly.  She  conceives  as  little 
mental  doubt  of  tho  sanity  of  the  act  as  he.  Over  them 
hangs  a  cool  young  curate  in  his  raiment  of  office.  Be- 
hind are  two  apparently  lucid  people,  distinguished  from 
each  other  by  sex  and  age;  the  foremost  a  bunch  of  sim- 
mering black  satin;  under  her  shadow  a  cock-robin  in 
the  dress  of  a  gentleman,  big  joy  swelling  out  his  chest, 
and   pert  satisfaction   cocking  his   head.     These   be  they 


THE  LAST  ACT  OF  A  COMEDY  245 

who  stand  here  in  place  of  parents  to  the  young  couple. 
All  is  well.     The  service  proceeds. 

Firmly  the  bridegroom  tells  forth  his  words.  This  hour 
of  the  complacent  giant  at  least  is  his,  and  that  he  means 
to  hold  him  bound  through  the  eternities,  men  may  hear. 
Clearly,  and  with  brave  modesty,  speaks  she:  no  less 
firmly,  though  her  body  trembles :  her  voice  just  vibrating 
while  the  tone  travels  on,  like  a  smitten  vase. 

Time  hears  sentence  pronounced  on  him :  the  frail  hands 
bind  his  huge  limbs  and  lock  the  chains.  He  is  used  to  it : 
he  lets  them  do  as  they  will. 

Then  comes  that  period  when  they  are  to  give  their  troth 
to  each  other.  The  Man  with  his  right  hand  takes  the 
Woman  by  her  right  hand :  the  Woman  with  her  right 
hand  takes  the  Man  by  his  right  hand. — Devils  dare  not 
laugh  at  whom  Angels  crowd  to  contemplate. 

Their  hands  are  joined;  their  blood  flows  as  one  stream. 
Adam  and  fair  Eve  front  the  generations.  Are  they  not 
lovely?    Purer  fountains  of  life  were  never  in  two  bosoms. 

And  then  they  loose  their  hands,  and  the  cool  curate 
doth  bid  the  Man  to  put  a  ring  on  the  Woman's  fourth 
finger,  counting  thumb.  And  the  Man  thrusts  his  hand 
into  one  pocket,  and  into  another,  forward  and  back  many 
times :  into  all  his  pockets.  He  remembers  that  he  felt 
for  it,  and  felt  it  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  when  in  the 
Gardens.  And  his  hand  comes  forth  empty.  And  the  Man 
is  ghastly  to  look  at! 

Yet,  though  Angels  smile,  shall  not  Devils  laugh !  The 
curate  deliberates.  The  black  satin  bunch  ceases  to  sim- 
mer. He  in  her  shadow  changes  from  a  beaming  cock- 
robin  to  an  inquisitive  sparrow.  Eyes  multiply  questions: 
lips  have  no  reply.  Time  ominously  shakes  his  chain, 
and  in  the  pause  a  sound  of  mockery  stings  their  ears. 

Think  ye  a  hero  is  one  to  be  defeated  in  his  first  battle? 
Look  at  the  clock !  there  are  but  seven  minutes  to  the 
stroke  of  the  celibate  hours:  the  veteran  is  surely  lifting 
his  two  hands  to  deliver  fire,  and  his  shot  will  sunder 
them  in  twain  so  nearly  united.  All  the  jewellers  of 
London  speeding  down  with  sacks  full  of  the  nuptial 
circlet  cannot  save  them ! 

The  battle  must  be  won  on  the  fieid,  and  what  does  the 
hero  now?     It  is  an  inspiration!     For  who  else  would 


246      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

dream  of  such  a  reserve  in  the  rear?  None  see  what  he 
does;  only  that  the  black-satin  bunch  is  remonstratingly 
agitated,  stormily  shaken,  and  subdued:  and  as  though  the 
menacing  cloud  had  opened,  and  dropped  the  dear  token 
from  the  skies  at  his  demand,  lie  produces  the  symbol  of 
their  consent,  and  the  service  proceeds:  "With  this  ring 
I  thee   wed." 

They  are  prayed  over  and  blest.  For  good,  or  for  ill, 
this  deed  is  done.  The  names  are  registered;  fees  fly 
right  and  left:  they  thank,  and  salute,  the  curate,  whose 
official  coolness  melts  into  a  smile  of  monastic  gallantry: 
the  beadle  on  the  steps  waves  off  a  gaping  world  as  they 
issue  forth:  bridegroom  and  bridesman  recklessly  scatter 
gold  on  him:  carriage  doors  are  banged  to:  the  coachmen 
drive  off,  and  the  scene  closes,  everybody  happy. 


CHAPTER  XXX 
CELEBRATES    THE    BREAKFAST 

And  the  next  moment  the  bride  is  weeping  as  if  she 
would  dissolve  to  one  of  Dian's  Virgin  Fountains  from 
the  clasp  of  the  Sun-God.  She  has  nobly  preserved  the 
mask  imposed  by  comedies,  till  the  curtain  has  fallen,  and 
now  she  weeps,  streams  with  tears.  Have  patience,  O  im- 
petuous young  man !  It  is  your  profession  to  be  a  hero. 
This  poor  heart  is  new  to  it,  and  her  duties  involve  such 
wild  acts,  such  brigandage,  such  terrors  and  tasks,  she  is 
quite  unnerved.  She  did  you  honour  till  now.  Rear  with 
her  now.  She  does  not  cry  the  cry  of  ordinary  maidens 
in  like  cases.  While  the  struggle  went  on  her  tender  face 
was  brave;  but  alas!  Omens  are  against  her:  she  holds 
an  ever-present  dreadful  one  on  that  fatal  fourth  finger 
of  hers,  which  has  coiled  itself  round  her  dream  of  delight, 
and  takes  her  in  its  clutch  like  a  horrid  serpent.  And  yet 
she  must  love  it.  She  dares  not  part  from  it.  She  must 
love  and  hug  it,  and  feed  on  its  strange  honey,  and  all 
the  bliss  it  gives  her  casts  all  the  deeper  shadow  on  what 
is  to  come. 


CELEBRATES  THE  BREAKFAST     247 

Say:  Is  it  not  enough  to  cause  feminine  apprehension, 
for  a  woman  to  be  married  in  another  woman's  ring? 

You  are  amazons,  ladies,  at  Saragossa,  and  a  thousand 
citadels — wherever  there  is  strife,  and  Time  is  to  be  taken 
by  the  throat.  Then  shall  few  men  match  your  sublime 
fury.  But  what  if  you  see  a  vulture,  visible  only  to 
yourselves,  hovering  over  the  house  you  are  gaily  led  by 
the  torch  to  inhabit?  Will  you  not  crouch  and  be  cowards  ? 

As  for  the  hero,  in  the  hour  of  victory  he  pays  no  heed 
to  omens.  He  does  his  best  to  win  his  darling  to  con- 
fidence by  caresses.  Is  she  not  his  ?  Is  he  not  hers  ?  And 
why,  when  the  battle  is  won,  does  she  weep?  Does  she 
regret  what  she  has  done? 

Oh,  never!  never!  her  soft  blue  eyes  assure  him,  stead- 
fast love  seen  swimming  on  clear  depths  of  faith  in  them, 
through  the  shower. 

He  is  silenced  by  her  exceeding  beauty,  and  sits  per- 
plexed waiting  for  the  shower  to  pass. 

Alone  with  Mrs.  Berry,  in  her  bedroom,  Lucy  gave 
tongue  to  her  distress,  and  a  second  character  in  the 
comedy  changed  her  face. 

"O  Mrs.  Berry !  Mrs.  Berry !  what  has  happened !  what 
has  happened!" 

"My  darlin'  child!"  The  bridal  Berry  gazed  at  the 
finger  of  doleful  joy.  "I'd  forgot  all  about  it !  And  that's 
what've  made  me  feel  so  queer  ever  since,  then!  I've 
been  seemin'  as  if  I  wasn't  myself  somehow,  without  my 
ring.  Dear!  dear!  what  a  wilful  young  gentleman!  We 
ain't  a  match  for  men  in  that  state — Lord  help  us!" 

Mrs.  Berry  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  chair :  Lucy  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it,  Mrs.  Berry?  Is  it  not 
terrible  ?" 

"I  can't  say  I  should  'a  liked  it  myself,  my  dear,"  Mrs. 
Berry  candidly  responded. 

"Oh!  why,  why,  why  did  it  happen!"  the  young  bride 
bent  to  a  flood  of  fresh  tears,  murmuring  that  she  felt 
already  old — forsaken. 

"Haven't  you  got  a  comfort  in  your  religion  for  all  acci- 
dents?"   Mrs.  Berry  inquired. 

"None  for  this.  I  know  it's  wrong  to  cry  when  I  am  so 
happy.    I  hope  he  will  forgive  me." 


248      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

Mrs.  Berry  vowed  her  bride  was  the  sweetest,  softest, 
beautifulest  thing  in  life. 

"Ill  cry  no  more,"  said  Lucy.  "Leave  me,  Mrs.  Berry, 
and  come  back  when  1  ring." 

Sbe  drew  forth  a  little  silver  cross,  and  fell  upon  her 
knees  to  the  bed.     Mrs.  Berry  left  the  room  tiptoe. 

When  she  was  called  to  return,  Lucy  was  calm  and  tear- 
less, and  smiled  kindly  to  her. 

"It's  over  now,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Berry  sedately  looked  for  her  ring  to  follow. 

"Ho  does  not  wish  me  to  go  in  to  the  breakfast  you 
have  prepared,  Mrs.  Berry.  I  begged  to  be  excused.  I 
cannot  eat." 

Mrs.  Berry  very  much  deplored  it,  as  she  had  laid  out 
a  superior  nuptial  breakfast,  but  with  her  mind  on  her 
ring  she  nodded  assentingly. 

"We  shall  not  have  much  packing  to  do,  Mrs.  Berry." 

"No,  my  dear.     It's  pretty  well  all  done." 

"We  are  going  to  the  Isle  of  Wight,  Mrs.  Berry." 

"And  a  very  suitable  spot  ye've  chose,  my  dear!" 

"He  loves  the  sea.     He  wishes  to  be  near  it." 

"Don't  ye  cross  to-night,  if  it's  anyways  rough,  my  dear. 
It  isn't  advisable."  Mrs.  Berry  sank  her  voice  to  say, 
"Don't  ye  be  soft  and  give  way  to  him  there,  or  you'll 
both  be  repenting  it." 

Lucy  had  only  been  staving  off  the  unpleasantness  she 
had  to  speak.  She  saw  Mrs.  Berry's  eyes  pursuing  her 
ring,  and  screwed  up  her  courage  at  last. 

"Mrs.   Berry." 

"Yes,  my  dear." 

"Mrs.  Berry,  you  shall  have  another  ring." 

"Another,  my  dear?"  Berry  did  not  comprehend. 
"One's  quite  enough  for  the  objeck,"  she  remarked. 

"I  mean,"  Lucy  touched  her  fourth  finger,  "I  cannot 
part  with  this."     She  looked  straight  at  Mrs.  Berry. 

That  bewildered  creature  gazed  at  her,  and  at  the  ring, 
till  she  had  thoroughly  exhausted  the  meaning  of  the 
words,  and  then  exclaimed,  horror-struck:  "Deary  me, 
now!  you  don't  say  that?  You're  to  be  married  again  in 
your  own  religion." 

The  young  wife  repeated :  "I  can  never  part  with  it." 

"But,  my  dear!"  the  wretched  Berry  wrung  her  hands, 


CELEBEATES  THE  BEEAKFAST     249 

divided  between  compassion  and  a  sense  of  injury.  "My 
dear!"  she  kept  expostulating  like  a  mute. 

"I  know  all  that  you  would  say,  Mrs.  Berry.  I  am  very 
grieved  to  pain  you.  It  is  mine  now,  and  must  be  mine. 
I  cannot  give  it  back." 

There  she  sat,  suddenly  developed  to  the  most  inflexible 
little  heroine  in  the  three  Ivingdoms. 

From  her  first  perception  of  the  meaning  of  the  young 
bride's  words,  Mrs.  Berry,  a  shrewd  physiognomist,  knew 
that  her  case  was  hopeless,  unless  she  treated  her  as  she 
herself  had  been  treated,  and  seized  the  ring  by  force  of 
arms;  and  that  she  had  not  heart  for. 

"What !"  she  gasped  faintly,  "one's  own  lawful  wedding- 
ring  you  wouldn't  give  back  to  a  body?" 

"Because  it  is  mine,  Mrs.  Berry.  It  was  yours,  but  it  is 
mine  now.  You  shall  have  whatever  you  ask  for  but  that. 
Pray,  forgive  me!     It  must  be  so." 

Mrs.  Berry  rocked  on  her  chair,  and  sounded  her  hands 
together.  It  amazed  her  that  this  soft  little  creature  could 
be  thus  firm.     She  tried  argument. 

"Don't  ye  know,  my  dear,  it's  the  fatalest  thing  you're 
inflictin'  upon  me,  reelly !  Don't  ye  know  that  bein'  bereft 
of  one's  own  lawful  wedding-ring's  the  fatalest  thing  in 
life,  and  there's  no  prosperity  after  it !  For  what  stands 
in  place  o'  that,  when  that's  gone,  my  dear?  And  what 
could  ye  give  me  to  compensate  a  body  for  the  loss  o'  that  ? 
Don't  ye  know — Oh,  deary  me!"  The  little  bride's  face 
was  so  set  that  poor  Berry  wailed  off  in  despair. 

"I  know  it,"  said  Lucy.  "I  know  it  all.  I  know  what 
I  do  to  you.  Dear,  dear  Mrs.  Berry!  forgive  me!  If  I 
parted  with  my  ring  I  know  it  would  be  fatal." 

So  this  fair  young  freebooter  took  possession  of  her 
argument  as  well  as  her  ring. 

Berry  racked  her  distracted  wits  for  a  further  appeal. 

"But,  my  child,"  she  counterargued,  "you  don't  under- 
stand. It  ain't  as  you  think.  It  ain't  a  hurt  to  you  now. 
Not  a  bit,  it  ain't.  It  makes  no  difference  now!  Any  ring 
does  while  the  wearer's  a  maid.  And  your  Mr.  Eichard  '11 
find  the  very  ring  he  intended  for  ye.  And,  of  course, 
that's  the  one  you'll  wear  as  his  wife.  It's  all  the  same 
now,  my  dear.  It's  no  shame  to  a  maid.  Now  do — now 
do — there's  a  darlin'!" 


250      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

Wheedling  availed  as  little  as  argument. 

"Mrs.  Berry,"  said  Lucy,  "you  know  what  my — he 
spoke:  'With  this  ring  1  tlu-c  wed.'  Jt  was  with  litis  ring. 
Then  how  could  it  be  with  another?" 

Berry  was  constrained  despondently  to  acknowledge  that 
was  logic. 

She  hit  upon  an  artful  conjecture: 

"Won't  it  be  unlucky  your  wearin'  of  the  ring  which 
served  me  so?     Think  o'  that!" 

"It  may !  it  may !  it  may !"  cried  Lucy. 

"And  arn't  you  rushin'  into  it.  my  clear?" 

"Mrs.  Berry,"  Lucy  said  again,  "it  was  this  ring.  It 
cannot — it  never  can  be  another.  It  was  this.  What  it 
brings  mo  I  must  bear.     I  shall  wear  it  till  I  di<!" 

"Then  what  am  I  to  do?"  the  ill-used  woman  groaned. 
"What  shall  I  tell  my  husband  when  he  come  back  to  me, 
and  see  I've  got  a  new  ring  waitin'  for  him?  Won't  that 
be  a  welcome?" 

Quoth  Lucy:  "How  can  he  know  it  is  not  tho  same,  in 
a  plain  gold  ring?" 

"You  never  see  so  keen  a  eyed  man  in  joolry  as  my 
Berry!"  returned  his  solitary  spouse.  "Not  know,  my 
dear?  Why,  any  one  would  know  that  've  got  eyes  in  his 
head.  There's  as  much  difference  in  wedding-rings  as 
there's  in  wedding  people!  Now,  do  pray  be  reasonable, 
my  own  sweet!" 

"Pray,  do  not  ask  me,"  pleads  Lucy. 

"Pray,  do  think  better  of  it,"  urges  Berry. 

"Pray,  pray,  Mrs.  Berry  I"  pleads  Lucy. 

" — And  not  leave  your  old  Berry  all  forlorn  just  when 
you're  so  happy!" 

"Indeed  I  would  not,  you  dear,  kind  old  creature!" 
Lucy  faltered. 

Mrs.  Berry  thought  she  had  her. 

"Just  when  you're  going  to  be  the  happiest  wife  on 
earth — all  you  want  yours!"  she  pursued  the  tender  strain. 
"A  handsome  young  gentleman !  Love  and  Fortune 
smilin'  on  ye!" 

Lucy  rose  up. 

''Mrs.  Berry,"  she  said,  "I  think  we  must  not  lose  time 
in  getting  ready,  or  he  will  be  impatient." 

Poor  Berry  surveyed  her  in  abject  wonder  from  the  edge 


CELEBRATES  THE  BREAKFAST     251 

of  her  chair.  Dignity  and  resolve  were  in  the  ductile 
form  she  had  hitherto  folded  under  her  wing.  In  an  hour 
the  heroine  had  risen  to  the  measure  of  the  hero.  With- 
out being  exactly  aware  what  creature  she  was  dealing 
with,  Berry  acknowledged  to  herself  it  was  not  one  of  the 
common  run,  and  sighed,  and  submitted. 

"It's  like  a  divorce,  that  it  is!"  she  sobbed. 

After  putting  the  corners  of  her  apron  to  her  eyes, 
Berry  bustled  humbly  about  the  packing.  Then  Lucy, 
whose  heart  was  full  to  her,  came  and  kissed  her,  and 
Berry  bumped  down  and  regularly  cried.  This  over,  she 
had  recourse  to  fatalism. 

"I  suppose  it  was  to  be,  my  dear!  It's  my  punishment 
for  meddlin'  wi'  such  matters.  No,  I'm  not  sorry.  Bless 
ye  both.  Who'd  'a  thought  you  was  so  wilful  ? — you  that 
any  one  might  have  taken  for  one  of  the  silly-softs! 
You're  a  pair,  my  dear!  indeed  you  are!  You  was  made 
to  meet!  But  we  mustn't  show  him  we've  been  crying. — 
Men  don't  like  it  when  they're  happy.  Let's  wash  our 
faces  and  try  to  bear  our  lot." 

So  saying  the  black-satin  bunch  careened  to  a  renewed 
deluge.  She  deserved  some  sympathy,  for  if  it  is  sad  to 
be  married  in  another  person's  ring,  how  much  sadder  to 
have  one's  own  old  accustomed  lawful  ring  violently  torn 
off  one's  finger  and  eternally  severed  from  one!  But 
where  you  have  heroes  and  heroines,  these  terrible  com- 
plications ensue. 

They  had  now  both  fought  their  battle  of  the  ring,  and 
with  equal  honour  and  success. 

In  the  chamber  of  banquet  Richard  was  giving  Ripton 
his  last  directions.  Though  it  was  a  private  wedding,  Mrs. 
Berry  had  prepared  a  sumptuous  breakfast.  Chickens 
offered  their  breasts :  pies  hinted  savoury  secrets :  things 
mystic,  in  a  mash,  with  Gallic  appellatives,  jellies,  creams, 
fruits,  strewed  the  table:  as  a  tower  in  the  midst,  the 
cake  colossal :  the  priestly  vesture  of  its  nuptial  white  re- 
lieved by  hymeneal  splendours. 

Many  hours,  much  labour  and  anxiety  of  mind,  Mrs. 
Berry  had  expended  upon  this  breakfast,  and  why  ?  There 
is  one  who  comes  to  all  feasts  that  have  their  basis  in 
Folly,  whom  criminals  of  trained  instinct  are  careful  to 
provide  against :  who  will  speak,  and  whose  hateful  voice 


252      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  EEVEREL 

must  somehow  bo  silenced  while  the  feast  is  going  on. 
This  personage  is  The  Philosopher.  Mrs.  Berry  knew 
him.  She  knew  that  he  would  come.  She  provided 
against  him  in  the  manner  she  thought  most  efficacious: 
that  is,  by  cheating  her  eyes  and  intoxicating  her  con- 
science with  the  due  and  proper  glories  incident  to  wed- 
dings where  fathers  dilate,  mothers  collapse,  and  marriage 
settlements  are  flourished  on  high  by  the  family  lawyer: 
and  had  there  been  no  show  of  the  kind  to  greet  her  on 
her  return  from  the  church,  she  would,  and  she  foresaw 
she  would,  have  stared  at  squalor  and  emptiness,  and 
repented  her  work.  The  Philosopher  would  have  laid  hold 
of  her  by  the  ear,  and  called  her  bad  names.  Entrenched 
behind  a  breakfast-table  so  legitimately  adorned,  Mrs. 
Berry  defied  him.  In  the  presence  of  that  cake  he  dared 
not  speak  above  a  whisper.  And  there  were  wines  to 
drown  him  in,  should  he  still  think  of  protesting;  fiery 
wines,  and  cool :  claret  sent  purposely  by  the  bridegroom 
for  the  delectation  of  his  friend. 

For  one  good  hour,  therefore,  the  labour  of  many  hours 
kept  him  dumb.  Ripton  was  fortifying  himself  so  as  to 
forget  him  altogether,  and  the  world  as  well,  till  the  next 
morning.  Ripton  was  excited,  overdone  with  delight.  He 
had  already  finished  one  bottle,  and  listened,  pleasantly 
flushed,  to  his  emphatic  and  more  abstemious  chief.  He 
had  nothing  to  do  but  to  listen,  and  to  drink.  The  hero 
would  not  allow  him  to  shout  Victory!  or  hear  a -word  of 
toasts;  and  as,  from  the  quantity  of  oil  poured  on  it,  his 
eloquence  was  becoming  a  natural  force  in  his  bosom,  the 
poor  fellow  was  afflicted  with  a  sort  of  elephantiasis  of 
suppressed  emotion.  At  times  he  half-rose  from  his  chair, 
and  fell  vacuously  into  it  again;  or  he  chuckled  in  the 
face  of  weighty,  severely-worded  instructions;  tapped  his 
chest,  stretched  his  arms,  yawned,  and  in  short  behaved 
so  singularly  that  Richard  observed  it,  and  said:  "On 
my  soul,  I  don't  think  you  know  a  word  I'm  saying." 

"Every  word,  Ricky  I"  Ripton  spirted  through  the  open- 
ing. "I'm  going  down  to  your  governor,  and  tell  him: 
Sir  Austin!  Here's  your  only  chance  of  being  a  happy 
father — no,  no ! — Oh !  don't  you  fear  me,  Ricky  !  1  shall 
talk  the  old  gentleman  over." 


CELEBRATES  THE  BREAKFAST     253 

His  chief  said : 

"Look  here.  Yon  had  better  not  go  down  to-night.  Go 
down  the  first  thing  to-morrow,  by  the  six  o'clock  train. 
Give  him  my  letter.  Listen  to  me — give  him  my  letter, 
and  don't  speak  a  word  till  he  speaks.  His  eyebrows  will 
go  up  and  down,  he  won't  say  much.  I  know  him.  If  he 
asks  you  about  her,  don't  be  a  fool,  but  say  what  you 
think  of  her  sensibly" 

No  cork  could  hold  in  Ripton  when  she  was  alluded  to. 
He  shouted :  "She's  an  angel !" 

Richard  checked  him:  "Speak  sensibly,  I  say — quietly. 
You  can  say  how  gentle  and  good  she  is — my  fleur-de-luce ! 
And  say,  this  was  not  her  doing.  If  any  one's  to  blame, 
it's  I.  I  made  her  marry  me.  Then  go  to  Lady  Blandish, 
if  you  don't  find  her  at  the  house.  You  may  say  whatever 
you  please  to  her.  Give  her  my  letter,  and  tell  her  I 
want  to  hear  from  her  immediately.  She  has  seen  Lucy, 
and  I  know  what  she  thinks  of  her.  You  will  then  go  to 
Farmer  Blaize.  I  told  you  Lucy  happens  to  be  his  niece — 
she  has  not  lived  long  there.  She  lived  with  her  aunt 
Desborough  in  France  while  she  was  a  child,  and  can 
hardly  be  called  a  relative  to  the  farmer — there's  not  a 
point  of  likeness  between  them.  Poor  darling!  she  never 
knew  her  mother.  Go  to  Mr.  Blaize,  and  tell  him.  You 
will  treat  him  just  as  you  would  treat  any  other  gentle- 
man. If  you  are  civil,  he  is  sure  to  be.  And  if  he 
abuses  me,  for  my  sake  and  hers  you  will  still  treat  him 
with  respect.  You  hear?  And  then  write  me  a  full  ac- 
count of  all  that  has  been  said  and  done.  You  will  have 
my  address  the  day  after  to-morrow.  By  the  way,  Tom 
will  be  here  this  afternoon.  Write  out  for  him  where  to 
call  on  you  the  day  after  to-morrow,  in  case  you  have 
heard  anything  in  the  morning  you  think  I  ought  to 
know  at  once,  as  Tom  will  join  me  that  night.  Don't 
mention  to  anybody  about  my  losing  the  ring,  Ripton. 
I  wouldn't  have  Adrian  get  hold  of  that  for  a  thousand 
pounds.  How  on  earth  I  came  to  lose  it!  How  well  she 
bore  it,  Rip!     How  beautifully  she  behaved!" 

Ripton  again  shouted :  "An  angel !"  Throwing  up  the 
heels  of  his  second  bottle,  he  said : 

"You  may  trust  your  friend,  Richard.     Aha!  when  you 


254      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

pulled  at  old  Mrs.  Berry  I  didn't  know  what  was  up.  I  do 
wish  you'd  let  me  drink  her  health?" 

"Here's  to  Penelope!"  said  Richard,  just  wetting  his 
mouth.  The  carriage  was  at  the  door:  a  couple  of  dire 
organs,  each  grinding  the  same  tune,  and  a  vulture-scented 
itinerant  band  (from  which  not  the  secretest  veiled  wed- 
ding can  escape)  worked  harmoniously  without  in  the 
production  of  discord,  and  the  noise  acting  on  his  nervous 
state  made  him  begin  to  fume  and  send  in  messages  for 
his  bride  by  the  maid. 

By  and  by  the  lovely  young  bride  presented  herself 
dressed  for  her  journey,  and  smiling  from  stained  eyes. 

Mrs.  Berry  was  requested  to  drink  some  wine,  which 
Ripton  poured  out  for  her,  enabling  Mrs.  Berry  thereby  to 
measure  his  condition. 

The  bride  now  kissed  Mrs.  Berry,  and  Mrs.  Berry  kissed 
the  bridegroom,  on  the  plea  of  her  softness.  Lucy  gave 
Ripton  her  hand,  with  a  musical  "Good-bye,  Mr.  Thomp- 
son," and  her  extreme  graciousness  made  him  just  sensi- 
ble enough  to  sit  down  before  he  murmured  his  fervent 
hopes  for  her  happiness. 

"I  shall  take  good  care  of  him,"  said  Mrs.  Berry,  focus- 
sing her  eyes  to  the  comprehension  of  the  company. 

"Farewell,  Penelope!"  cried  Richard.  "I  shall  tell  the 
police  everywhere  to  look  out  for  your  lord." 

"Oh  my  dears!  good-bye,  and  Heaven  bless  ye  both!" 

Berry  quavered,  touched  with  compunction  at  thf 
thoughts  of  approaching  loneliness.  Ripton,  his  mouth 
drawn  like  a  bow  to  his  ears,  brought  up  the  rear  to  the 
carriage,  receiving  a  fair  slap  on  the  cheek  from  an  old 
shoe  precipitated  by  Mrs.  Berry's  enthusiastic  female 
domestic. 

White  handkerchiefs  were  waved,  the  adieux  had  fallen 
to  signs:  they  were  off.  Then  did  a  thought  of  such 
urgency  illumine  Mrs.  Berry,  that  she  telegraphed,  hand 
in  air,  awakening  Ripton's  lungs,  for  the  coachman  to 
stop,  and  ran  back  to  the  house.  Richard  chafed  to  be 
gone,  but  at  his  bride's  intercession  he  consented  to  wait. 
Presently  they  beheld  the  old  black-satin  bunch  stream 
through  the  street-door,  down  the  bit  of  garden,  and  up 
the  astonished  street,  halting,  panting,  capless  at  the 
carriage  door,   a   book   in  her  hand, — a  much-used,   dog- 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PERSON  255 

leaved,  steamy,  greasy  book,  which,  at  the  same  time 
calling  out  in  breathless  jerks,  "There!  never  ye  mind 
looks !  I  ain't  got  a  new  one.  Read  it,  and  don't  ye  forget 
it!"  she  discharged  into  Lucy's  lap,  and  retreated  to  the 
railings,  a  signal  for  the  coachman  to  drive  away  for 
good. 

How  Richard  laughed  at  the  Berry's  bridal  gift !  Lucy, 
too,  lost  the  omen  at  her  heart  as  she  glanced  at  the  title 
of  the  volume.  It  was  Dr.  Kitchener  on  Domestic 
Cookery ! 


CHAPTER   XXXI 
THE   PHILOSOPHER  APPEARS  IN  PERSON 

General  withdrawing  of  heads  from  street-windows, 
emigration  of  organs  and  bands,  and  a  relaxed  atmosphere 
in  the  circle  of  Mrs.  Berry's  abode,  proved  that  Dan 
Cupid  had  veritably  flown  to  suck  the  life  of  fresh  regions. 
With  a  pensive  mind  she  grasped  Ripton's  arm  to  regulate 
his  steps,  and  returned  to  the  room  where  her  creditor 
awaited  her.  In  the  interval  he  had  stormed  her  unde- 
fended fortress,  the  cake,  from  which  altitude  he  shook  a 
dolorous  head  at  the  guilty  woman.  She  smoothed  her 
excited  apron,  sighing.  Let  no  one  imagine  that  she 
regretted  her  complicity.  She  was  ready  to  cry  torrents, 
but  there  must  be  absolute  castigation  before  this  criminal 
shall  conceive  the  sense  of  regret;  and  probably  then  she 
will  cling  to  her  wickedness  the  more — such  is  the  born 
Pagan's  tenacity !  Mrs.  Berry  sighed,  and  gave  him  back 
his  shake  of  the  head.  O  you  wanton,  improvident 
creature !  said  he.  O  you  very  wise  old  gentleman !  said 
she.  He  asked  her  the  thing  she  had  been  doing.  She 
enlightened  him  with  the  fatalist's  reply.  He  sounded  a 
bogey's  alarm  of  contingent  grave  results.  She  retreated 
to  the  entrenched  camp  of  the  fact  she  had  helped  to  make. 

"It's  done!"  she  exclaimed.  How  could  she  regret  what 
she  felt  comfort  to  know  was  done  ?  Convinced  that  events 
alone  could  stamp  a  mark  on  such  stubborn  flesh,  he  deter- 
mined to  wait  for  them,  and  crouched  silent  on  the  cake, 


256       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

with  one  finger  downward  at  Ripton's  incision  there, 
showing  a  crumbling  chasm  and  gloomy  rich  recess. 

The  eloquent  indication  was  understood.  "Dear!  dear!" 
cried  Mrs.  Berry,  "what  a  heap  o'  cake,  and  no  one  to  send 
it  to!" 

Ripton  had  resumed  his  seat  by  the  table  and  his  em- 
brace of  the  claret.  Clear  ideas  of  satisfaction  had  left 
him  and  resolved  to  a  boiling  geysir  of  indistinguishable 
transports,  lie  bubbled,  and  wangled,  and  nodded  ami- 
cably to  nothing,  and  successfully,  though  not  without 
effort,  preserved  his  uppermost  member  from  the  seduc- 
tions of  the  nymph,  Gravitation,  who  was  on  the  look-out 
for  his  whole  length  shortly. 

"Ha!  ha!"  he  shouted,  about  a  minute  after  Mrs.  Berry 
had  spoken,  and  almost  abandoned  himself  to  the  nymph 
on  the  spot.    Mrs.  Berry's  words  had  just  reached  his  wits. 

"Why  do  you  laugh,  young  man?"  she  inquired,  familiar 
and  motherly  on  account  of  his  condition. 

Ripton  laughed  louder,  and  caught  his  chest  on  the 
edge  of  the  table  and  his  nose  on  a  chicken.  "That's  goo'  I" 
he  said,  recovering,  and  rocking  under  Mrs.  Berry's  eyes. 
"No  friend !" 

"I  did  not  say,  no  friend,"  she  remarked.  "I  said,  no 
one;  meanin',  I  know  not  where  for  to  send  it  to." 

Ripton's  response  to  this  was:  "You  put  a  Griffin  on 
that  cake.     Wheatsheaves  each  side." 

"His  crest?"  Mrs.  Berry  said  sweetly. 

"Oldest  baronetcy  'n  England !"  waved  Ripton. 

"Yes?"  Mrs.  Berry  encouraged  him  on. 

"You  think  he's  Richards.  We're  oblige'  be  very  close. 
And  she's  the  most  lovely ! — If  I  hear  man  say  thing 
'gainst  her." 

"You  needn't  for  to  cry  over  her,  young  man,"  said  Mrs. 
Berry.  "I  wanted  for  to  drink  their  right  healths  by  their 
right  names,  and  then  go  about  my  day's  work,  and  1  do 
hope  you  won't  keep  me." 

Ripton  stood  bolt  upright  at  her  words. 

"You  do?"  he  said,  and  filling  a  bumper  he  with  cheer- 
fully vinous  articulation  and  glibness  of  tongue  proposed 
the  health  of  Richard  and  Lucy  Feverel,  of  Raynham 
Abbey!  and  that  mankind  should  not  require  an  expe- 
ditious example  of  the  way  to  accept  the  inspiring  toast, 


THE  PHILOSOPHEE  IN  PERSON  257 

he  drained  his  bumper  at  a  gulp.  It  finished  him.  The 
farthing  rushlight  of  his  reason  leapt  and  expired.  He 
tumbled  to  the  sofa  and  there  stretched. 

Some  minutes  subsequent  to  Ripton's  signalization  of 
his  devotion  to  the  bridal  pair,  Mrs.  Berry's  maid  entered 
the  room  to  say  that  a  gentleman  was  inquiring  below 
after  the  young  gentleman  who  had  departed,  and  found 
her  mistress  with  a  tottering  wineglass  in  her  hand,  ex- 
hibiting every  symptom  of  unconsoled  hysterics.  Her 
mouth  gaped,  as  if  the  fell  creditor  had  her  by  the  swallow. 
She  ejaculated  with  horrible  exultation  that  she  had  been 
and  done  it,  as  her  disastrous  aspect  seemed  to  testify, 
and  her  evident,  but  inexplicable,  access  of  misery  induced 
the  sympathetic  maid  to  tender  those  caressing  words  that 
were  all  Mrs.  Berry  wanted  to  go  off  into  the  self -caressing 
fit  without  delay;  and  she  had  already  given  the  preluding 
demoniac  ironic  outburst,  when  the  maid  called  heaven  to 
witness  that  the  gentleman  would  hear  her;  upon  which 
Mrs.  Berry  violently  controlled  her  bosom,  and  ordered 
that  he  should  be  shown  upstairs  instantly  to  see  her  the 
wretch  she  was.     She  repeated  the  injunction. 

The  maid  did  as  she  was  told,  and  Mrs.  Berry,  wishing 
first  to  see  herself  as  she  was,  mutely  accosted  the  looking- 
glass,  and  tried  to  look  a  very  little  better.  She  dropped  a 
shawl  on  Ripton  and  was  settled,  smoothing  her  agitation 
when  her  visitor  was  announced. 

The  gentleman  was  Adrian  Harley.  An  interview  with 
Tom  Bakewell  had  put  him  on  the  track,  and  now  a  mo- 
mentary survey  of  the  table,  and  its  white-vestured  caKe, 
made  him  whistle. 

Mrs.  Berry  plaintively  begged  him  to  do  her  the  favour 
to  be  seated. 

"A  fine  morning,  ma'am,"  said  Adrian. 

"It  have  been!"  Mrs.  Berry  answered,  glancing  over  her 
shoulder  at  the  window,  and  gulping  as  if  to  get  her  heart 
down  from  her  mouth. 

"A  very  fine  Spring,"  pursued  Adrian,  calmly  anatomiz- 
ing her  countenance. 

Mrs.  Berry  smothered  an  adjective  to  "weather"  on  a 
deep  sigh.  Her  wretchedness  was  palpable.  In  proportion 
to  it,  Adrian  waxed  cheerful  and  brisk.  He  divined 
enough  of  the  business  to  see  that  there  was  some  strange 


258      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

intelligence  to  be  fished  out  of  the  culprit  who  sat  com- 
pressing hysterics  before  him;  and  as  ho  was  never  more 
in  his  element  than  when  lie  had  a  sinner,  and  a  repentant 
prostrate  abject  sinner  in  hand,  his  aifable  countenance 
might  well  deceive  poor  Berry. 

"I  presume  these  are  Mr.  Thompson's  lodgings?"  he 
remarked,  with  a  look  at  the  table. 

Mrs.  Berry's  head  and  the  whites  of  her  eyes  informed 
him  that  they  were  not  Mr.  Thompson's  lodgings. 

'"No?"  said  Adrian,  and  threw  a  carelessly  inquisitive 
eye  about  him.     "Mr.  Feverel  is  out,  I  suppose?" 

A  convulsive  start  at  the  name,  and  two  corroborating 
hands  dropped  on  her  knees,  formed  Mrs.  Berry's  reply. 

"Mr.  Feverel's  man,"  continued  Adrian,  "told  me  I 
should  be  certain  to  find  him  here.  I  thought  he  would 
be  with  his  friend,  Mr.  Thompson.  I'm  too  late,  I  per- 
ceive. Their  entertainment  is  over.  I  fancy  you  have 
been  having  a  party  of  them  here,  ma'am? — a  bachelors' 
breakfast !" 

In  the  presence  of  that  cake  this  observation  seemed  to 
mask  an  irony  so  shrewd  that  Mrs.  Berry  could  barely 
contain  herself.  She  felt  she  must  speak.  Making  her 
face  as  deplorably  propitiating  as  she  could,  she  began: 

"Sir,  may  I  beg  for  to  know  your  name?" 

Mr.  Harley  accorded  her  request. 

Groaning  in  the  clutch  of  a  pitiless  truth,  she  con- 
tinued : 

"And  you  are  Mr.  Harley,  that  was — oh!  and  you've 
come  for  Mr.  V 

Mr.  Richard  Feverel  was  the  gentleman  Mr.  Harley  had 
come  for. 

"Oh!  and  it's  no  mistake,  and  he's  of  Raynham  Abbey?" 
Mrs.  Berry  inquired. 

Adrian,  very  much  amused,  assured  her  that  he  was 
born  and  bred  there. 

"His  father's  Sir  Austin?"  wailed  the  black-satin  bunch 
from  behind  her  handkerchief. 

Adrian  verified  Richard's  descent. 

"Oh,  then,  what  have  I  been  and  done!"  she  cried,  and 
stared  blankly  at  her  visitor.  "I  been  and  married  my 
baby!  I  been  and  married  the  bread  out  of  my  own  mouth. 
O  Mr.  Harley!  Mr.  Harley!    I  knew  you  when  you  was  a 


THE  PHILOSOPHEK  IN  PEKSON  259 

boy  that  big,  and  wore  jackets;  and  all  of  you.  And  it's 
my  softness  that's  my  ruin,  for  I  never  can  resist  a  man's 
asking.     Look  at  that  cake,  Mr.  Harley!" 

Adrian  followed  her  directions  quite  coolly.  "Wedding- 
cake,  ma'am!"  he  said. 

"Bride-cake  it  is,  Mr.  Harley!" 

"Did  you  make  it  yourself,  ma'am?" 

The  quiet  ease  of  the  question  overwhelmed  Mrs.  Berry, 
and  upset  that  train  of  symbolic  representations  by  which 
she  was  seeking  to  make  him  guess  the  catastrophe  and 
spare  her  the  furnace  of  confession. 

"I  did  not  make  it  myself,  Mr.  Harley,"  she  replied. 
"It's  a  bought  cake,  and  I'm  a  lost  woman.  Little  I 
dreamed  when  I  had  him  in  my  arms  a  baby  that  I  should 
some  day  be  marrying  him  out  of  my  own  house !  I  little 
dreamed  that!  Oh,  why  did  he  come  to  me!  Don't  you 
remember  his  old  nurse,  when  he  was  a  baby  in  arms, 
that  went  away  so  sudden,  and  no  fault  of  hers,  Mr. 
Harley!  The  very  mornin'  after  the  night  you  got  into 
Mr.  Benson's  cellar,  and  got  so  tipsy  on  his  Madeary 
I  remember  it  as  clear  as  yesterday ! — and  Mr.  Benson  was 
that  angry  he  threatened  to  use  the  whip  to  you,  and  I 
helped  put  you  to  bed.SI'm  that  very  woman." 

Adrian  smiled  placidly  at  these  reminiscences  of  his 
guileless  youthful  life. 

"Well,  ma'am!  well?"  he  said.  He  would  bring  her  to 
the  furnace. 

"Won't  you  see  it  all,  kind  sir?"  Mrs.  Berry  appealed 
to  him  in  pathetic  dumb  show. 

Doubtless  by  this  time  Adrian  did  see  it  all,  and  was 
mentally  cursing  at  Folly,  and  reckoning  the  immediate 
consequences,  but  he  looked  uninstructed,  his  peculiar 
dimple-smile  was  undisturbed,  his  comfortable  full-bodied 
posture  was  the  same.    "Well,  ma'am?"  he  spurred  her  on. 

Mrs.  Berry  burst  forth :  "It  were  done  this  mornin', 
Mr.  Harley,  in  the  church,  at  half -past  eleven  of  the  clock, 
or  twenty  to,  by  licence." 

Adrian  was  now  obliged  to  comprehend  a  case  of  matri- 
mony. "Oh!"  he  said,  like  one  who  is  as  hard  as  facts, 
and  as  little  to  be  moved:  "Somebody  was  married  this 
morning;  was  it  Mr.  Thompson,  or  Mr.  Feverel?" 

Mrs.  Berry  shuffled  up  to  Kipton,  and  removed  the  shawl 


260       THE  OBDEAL  OF   KICIIARI)   1T.YKKKL 

from  him.  Baying:  "Ho  he  look  like  a  new  married  bride- 
groom, Mr.  Harlc.v  }" 

Adrian  inspected  the  oblivious  Ripton  with  philosophic 
gravity. 

"This  young  gentleman  was  at  church  this  morning?" 

he  asked. 

"Oh,  quite  reasonable  and  proper  then,"  Mrs.  Berry 
begged  him  to  understand. 

"Of  course,  ma'am."  Adrian  lifted  and  let  fall  the 
stupid  inanimate  limbs  of  the  gone  wretch,  puckering  his 
mouth  queerly.  "You  were  all  reasonable  and  proper, 
ma'am.  The  principal  male  performer,  then,  is  my  cousin, 
Mr.  Feverel?  He  was  married  by  you,  this  morning,  by 
licence  at  your  parish  church,  and  came  here,  and  ate  a 
hearty  breakfast,  and  left  intoxicated." 

Mrs.  Berry  flew  out.  "He  never  drink  a  drop,  sir.  A 
more  moderate  young  gentleman  you  never  see.  Oh  !  don't 
ye  think  that  now,  Mr.  Harley.  He  was  as  upright  and 
master  of  his  mind  as  you  be." 

"Ay !"  the  wise  youth  nodded  thanks  to  her  for  the  com- 
parison, "I  mean  the  other  form  of  intoxication." 

Mrs.  Berry  sighed.  She  could  say  nothing  on  that 
score. 

Adrian  desired  her  to  sit  down,  and  compose  herself, 
and  tell  him  circumstantially  what  had  been  done. 

She  obeyed,  in  utter  perplexity  at  his  perfectly  composed 
demeanour. 

Mrs.  Berry,  as  her  recital  declared,  was  no  other  than 
that  identical  woman  who  once  in  old  days  had  dared  to 
behold  the  baronet  behind  his  mask,  and  had  ever  since 
lived  in  exile  from  the  Raynham  world  on  a  little  pension 
regularly  paid  to  her  as  an  indemnity.  She  was  that 
woman,  and  the  thought  of  it  made  her  almost  accuse 
Providence  for  the  betraying  excess  of  softness  it  had 
endowed  her  with.  How  was  she  to  recognize  her  baby 
grown  a  man?  He  came  in  a  feigned  name;  not  a  word 
of  the  family  was  mentioned.  He  came  like  an  ordinary 
mortal,  though  she  felt  something  more  than  ordinary  to 
him — she  knew  she  did.  He  came  bringing  a  beautiful 
young  lady,  and  on  what  grounds  could  she  turn  her  back 
on  them?  Why,  seeing  that  all  was  chaste  and  legal,  why 
should  she  interfere  to  make  them  unhappy — so  few  the 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PERSON  261 

chances  of  happiness  in  this  world!  Mrs.  Berry  related 
the  seizure  of  her  ring. 

"One  wrench,"  said  the  sobbing  culprit,  "one,  and  my 
ring  was  off!" 

She  had  no  suspicions,  and  the  task  of  writing  her  name 
in  the  vestry-book  had  been  too  enacting  for  a  thought 
upon  the  other  signatures. 

"I  daresay  you  were  exceedingly  sorry  for  what  you  had 
done,"  said  Adrian. 

"Indeed,  sir,"  moaned  Berry,  "I  were,  and  am." 
"And  would  do  your  best  to  rectify  the  mischief — eh, 
ma'am  ?" 

"Indeed,  and  indeed,  sir,  I  would,"  she  protested  sol- 
emnly. 

" — As,  of  course,  you  should — knowing  the  family. 
Where  may  these  lunatics  have  gone  to  spend  the  Moon?" 

Mrs.  Berry  swimmingly  replied:   "To   the  Isle I 

don't  quite  know,  sir!"  she  snapped  the  indication  short, 
and  jumped  out  of  the  pit  she  had  falle*n  into.  Repentant 
as  she  might  be,  those  dears  should  not  be  pursued  and 
cruelly  balked  of  their  young  bliss!  "To-morrow,  if  you 
please,  Mr.  Harley :  not  to-day !" 

"A  pleasant  spot,"  Adrian  observed,  smiling  at  his  easy 
prey. 

By  a  measurement  of  dates  he  discovered  that  the  bride- 
groom had  brought  his  bride  to  the  house  on  the  day  he 
had  quitted  Raynham,  and  this  was  enough  to  satisfy 
Adrian's  mind  that  there  had  been  concoction  and  chi- 
canery. Chance,  probably,  had  brought  him  to  the  old 
woman:  chance  certainly  had  not  brought  him  to  the 
young  one. 

"Very  well,  ma'am,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  her  petitions 
for  his  favourable  offices  with  Sir  Austin  in  behalf  of  her 
little  pension  and  the  bridal  pair,  "I  will  tell  him  you  were 
only  a  blind  agent  in  the  affair,  being  naturally  soft,  and 
that  you  trust  he  will  bless  the  consummation.  He  will 
be  in  town  to-morrow  morning;  but  one  of  you  two  must 
see  him  to-night.  An  emetic  kindly  administered  will  set 
our  friend  here  on  his  legs.  A  bath  and  a  clean  shirt,  and 
he  might  go.  I  don't  see  why  your  name  should  appear  at 
all.  Brush  him  up,  and  send  him  to  Bellingham  by  the 
seven  o'clock  train.     He  will  find  his  way  to  Raynham; 


262      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

he  knows  the  neighbourhood  best  in  the  dark.  Let  him 
go  and  state  the  case.     Remember,  one  of  you  must  go/' 

With  this  fair  prospect  of  leaving  a  choice  of  a  perdition 
between  the  couple  of  unfortunates,  for  them  to  tight  and 
lose  all  their  virtues,  over,  Adrian  said,  "Good  morning." 

Mrs.  Berry  touchingly  arrested  him.  "You  won't  refuse 
a  piece  of  his  cake,  Mtf  Harley?" 

"Oh,  dear,  no,  ma'am,"  Adrian  turned  to  the  cake  with 
alacrity.  "1  shall  claim  a  very  large  piece.  Richard  has 
a  great  many  friends  who  will  rejoice  to  eat  his  wedding- 
cake.  Cut  me  a  fair  quarter,  Mrs.  Berry.  Put  it  in  paper, 
if  you  please.  I  shall  be  delighted  to  carry  it  to  tJhem, 
and  apportion  it  equitably  according  to  their  several  de- 
grees of  relationship-." 

Mrs.  Berry  cut  the  cake.  Somehow,  as  she  sliced 
through  it,  the  sweetness  and  hapless  innocence  of  the 
bride  was  presented  to  her,  and  she  launched  into  eulogies 
of  Lucy,  and  clearly  showed  how  little  she  regretted  her 
conduct.  She  vowed  that  they  seemed  made  for  each 
other;  that  both  were  beautiful;  both  had  spirit;  both  were 
innocent;  and  to  part  them,  or  make  them  unhappy, 
would  be,  Mrs.  Berry  wrought  herself  to  cry  aloud,  oh, 
euch  a  pity ! 

Adrian  listened  to  it  as  the  expression  of  a  matter-of- 
fact  opinion.  He  took  the  huge  quarter  of  cake,  nodded 
multitudinous  promises,  and  left  Mrs.  Berry  to  bless  his 
good  heart. 

"So  dies  the  System!"  was  Adrian's  comment  in  the 
street.  "And  now  let  prophets  roar!  He  dies  respectably 
in  a  marriage-bed,  which  is  more  than  I  should  have  fore- 
told of  the  monster.  Meantime,"  he  gave  the  cake  a 
dramatic  tap,  "I'll  go  sow  nightmares." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 
PROCESSION    OF    THE    CAKE 

Adrian  really  bore  the  news  he  had  heard  with  credit- 
able disinterestedness,  and  admirable  repression  of  any- 
thing beneath   the  dignity  of  a  philosopher.     When  one 


PROCESSION  OF   THE  CAKE  263 

has  attained  that  felicitous  point  of  wisdom  from  which 
one  sees  all  mankind  to  be  fools,  the  diminutive  objects 
may  make  what  new  moves   they  please,   one  does  not 
marvel  at  them:  their  sedateness  is  as  comical  as  their 
frolic,   and   their   frenzies   more   comical   still.      On   this 
intellectual  eminence  the  wise  youth  had  built  his  castle, 
and  he  had  lived  in  it  from  an  early  period.    Astonishment 
never   shook  the  foundations,   nor  did  envy   of   greater 
heights  tempt  him  to  relinquish  the  security  of  his  strong- 
hold,  for  he   saw   none.      Jugglers   he   saw   running   up 
ladders    that    overtopped    him,    and    air-balloons    scaling 
the  empyrean;  but  the  former  came  precipitately  down 
again,  and  the  latter  were  at  the  mercy  of  the  winds; 
while   he   remained    tranquil    on    his    solid    unambitious' 
ground,  fitting  his  morality  to  the  laws,  his  conscience  to 
his   morality,   his   comfort  to  his   conscience.     Not  that 
voluntarily  he  cut  himself  off  from  his  fellows:   on  the 
contrary,  his  sole  amusement  was  their  society.     Alone  he 
was  rather  dull,  as  a  man  who  beholds  but  one  thing  must 
naturally  be.     Study  of  the  animated  varieties  of  that 
one  thing  excited  him  sufficiently  to  think  life  a  pleasant 
play;  and  the  faculties  he  had  forfeited  to  hold  his  ele- 
vated position  he  could  serenely  enjoy  by  contemplation 
of  them  in  others.     Thus: — wonder  at  Master  Richard's 
madness :  though  he  himself  did  not  experience  it,  he  was 
eager  to  mark  the  effect  on  his  beloved  relatives.    As  he 
carried  along  his  vindictive  hunch  of  cake,  he  shaped  out 
their  different  attitudes  of  amaze,  bewilderment,  horror; 
passing  by  some  personal  chagrin  in  the  prospect.     For 
his   patron   had   projected   a   journey,    commencing   with 
Paris,  culminating  on  the  Alps,  and  lapsing  in  Rome:  a 
delightful    journey    to    show    Richard    the    highways    of 
History  and  tear  him  from  the  risk  of  further  ignoble 
fascinations,   that  his  spirit  might  be  altogether  bathed 
in  freshness  and  revived.     This  had  been  planned  during 
Richard's  absence  to  surprise  him. 

Now  the  dream  of  travel  was  to  Adrian  what  the  love  of 
woman  is  to  the  race  of  young  men.  It  supplanted  that 
foolishness.  It  was  his  Romance,  as  we  say;  that  buoyant 
anticipation  on  which  in  youth  we  ride  the  airs,  and 
which,  as  we  wax  older  and  too  heavy  for  our  atmosphere, 
hardens  to  the  Hobby,  which,  if  an  obstinate  animal,  is 


204      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

a  safer  horse,  and  ((inducts  man  at  a  slower  pace  to  the 
sexton.  Adrian  had  never  travelled.  He  was  aware  that 
his  romance  was  earthly  and  had  discomforts  only  to  be 
evaded  by  the  one  potent  talisman  possessed  by  his  patron. 
His  Alp  would  hardly  he  grand  to  him  without  an  obse- 
quious landlord  in  the  foreground:  he  must  recline  on 
Mammon's  imperial  cushions  in  order  to  moralize  becom- 
ingly on  tho  ancient  world.  The  search  for  pleasure  at 
the  expense  of  discomfort,  as  frantic  lovers  woo  their 
mistresses  to  partake  the  shelter  of  a  hut  and  batten  on 
a  crust,  Adrian  deemed  the  bitterness  of  beggarliness. 
Let  his  sweet  mistress  be  given  him  in  the  pomp  and 
splendour  due  to  his  superior  emotions,  or  not  at  all. 
Consequently  the  wise  youth  had  long  nursed  an  inef- 
fectual passion,  and  it  argued  a  great  nature  in  him,  that 
at  the  moment  when  his  wishes  were  to  be  crowned,  he 
should  look  with  such  slight  touches  of  spleen  at  the  gor- 
geous composite  fabric  of  Parisian  cookery  and  Roman 
antiquities  crumbling  into  unsubstantial  mockery.  Assur- 
edly very  few  even  of  the  philosophers  would  have  turned 
away  uncomplainingly  to  meaner  delights  the  moment 
after. 

Hippias  received  the  first  portion  of  the  cake. 

He  was  sitting  by  the  window  in  his  hotel,  reading.  He 
had  fought  down  his  breakfast  with  more  than  usual  suc- 
cess, and  was  looking  forward  to  his  dinner  at  the  Foreys' 
with  less  than  usual  timidity. 

"Ah!  glad  you've  come,  Adrian,"  he  said,  and  expanded 
his  chest.  "I  was  afraid  I  should  have  to  ride  down. 
This  is  kind  of  you.  We'll  walk  down  together  through 
the  park.  It's  absolutely  dangerous  to  walk  alone  in  these 
streets.  My  opinion  is,  that  orange-peel  lasts  all  through 
the  year  now,  and  will  till  legislation  puts  a  stop  to  it.  I 
give  you  my  word  I  slipped  on  a  piece  of  orange-peel  yes- 
terday afternoon  in  Piccadilly,  and  I  thought  I  was  down! 
I  saved  myself  by  a  miracle." 

"You  have  an  appetite,  I  hope?"  asked  Adrian. 

"I  think  T  shall  get  one,  after  a  bit  of  a  walk,"  chirped 
Hippias.     "Yes.     I  think  T  feel  hungry  now." 

"Charmed  to  hear  it,"  said  Adrian,  and  began  unpin- 
ning his  parcel  on  his  knees.  "How  should  you  define 
Folly  ?"  he  checked  the  process  to  inquire. 


PEOCESSIOX  OF   THE   CAKE  265 

"Hm!"  Hippias  meditated;  he  prided  himself  on  being 
oracular  when  such  questions  were  addressed  to  him.  "1 
think  I  should  define  it  to  be  a  slide." 

"Very  good  definition.  In  other  words,  a  piece  of 
orange-peel;  once  on  it,  your  life  and  limbs  are  in  danger, 
and  you  are  saved  by  a  miracle.  You  must  present  that 
to  the  Pilgrim.  And  the  monument  of  folly,  what  would 
that  be?" 

Hippias  meditated  anew.  "AH  the  human  race  on  one 
another's  shoulders."  He  chuckled  at  the  sweeping  sour- 
ness of  the  instance. 

"Very  good,"  Adrian  applauded,  "or  in  default  of  that, 
some  symbol  of  the  thing,  say;  such  as  this  of  which  I 
have  here  brought  you  a  chip." 

Adrian  displayed  the  quarter  of  the  cake. 

"This  is  the  monument  made  portable — eh?" 

"Cake !"  cried  Hippias,  retreating  to  his  chair  to  drama- 
tize his  intense  disgust.  "You're  right  of  them  that  eat 
it.  If  I — if  I  don't  mistake,"  he  peered  at  it,  "the  noxious 
composition  bedizened  in  that  way  is  what  they  call  wed- 
ding-cake. It's  arrant  poison!  Who  is  it  you  want  to 
kill?    What  are  you  carrying  such  stuff  about  for?" 

Adrian  rang  the  bell  for  a  knife.  "To  present  you  with 
your  due  and  proper  portion.  You  will  have  friends  and 
relatives,  and  can't  be  saved  from  them,  not  even  by 
miracle.  It  is  a  habit  which  exhibits,  perhaps,  the  un- 
conscious inherent  cynicism  of  the  human  mind,  for 
people  who  consider  that  they  have  reached  the  acme  of 
mundane  felicity,  to  distribute  this  token  of  esteem  to 
their  friends,  with  the  object  probably"  (he  took  the 
knife  from  a  waiter  and  went  to  the  table  to  slice  the 
cake)  "of  enabling  those  friends  (these  edifices  require 
very  delicate  incision — each  particular  currant  and  subtle 
condiment  hangs  to  its  neighbour — a  wedding-cake  is 
evidently  the  most  highly  civilized  of  cakes,  and  partakes 
of  the  evils  as  well  as  the  advantages  of  civilization!) — 
I  was  saying,  they  send  us  these  love-tokens,  no  doubt 
(we  shall  have  to  weigh  out  the  crumbs,  if  each  is  to 
have  his  fair  share)  that  we  may  the  better  estimate  their 
state  of  bliss  by  passing  some  hours  in  purgatory.  This, 
as  far  as  I  can  apportion  it  without  weights  and  scales, 
is  your  share,  my  uncle!" 


266      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

He  pushed  the  corner  of  the  table  bearing  the  cake 
towards  Hippias. 

"Get  away!"  Hippias  vehemently  motioned,  and  started 
from  his  chair.  "I'll  have  nunc  of  it.  I  tell  yonl  It's 
death!  It'.-  fifty  times  worse  than  that  beastly  compound 
Christmas  pudding]  What  fool  has  been  doing  this,  then? 
Who  dares  send   me  cake  j      Me!     It's  an   insult." 

"You  are  not  compelled  to  eat  any  before  dinner." 
said  Adrian,  pointing  the  corner  of  the  table  after  him, 
''but  your  share  you  must  take,  and  appear  to  consume. 
One  who  has  done  so  much  to  bring  about  the  marriage 
cannot  in  conscience  refuse  his  allotment  of  the  fruits. 
Maidens,  I  hear,  first  cook  it  under  their  pillows,  and  ex- 
tract nuptial  dreams  therefrom — said  to  be  of  a  lighter 
class,  taken  that  way.  It's  a  capital  cake,  and,  upon  my 
honour,  you  have  helped  to  make  it — you  have  indeed ! 
So  here  it  is." 

The  table  again  went  at  Hippias.  He  ran  nimbly  round 
it,  and  flung  himself  on  a  sofa  exhausted,  crying:  "There! 
.     .     .     My  appetite's  gone  for  to-day  I" 

"Then  shall  I  tell  Richard  that  you  won't  touch  a 
morsel  of  his  cake?"  said  Adrian,  leaning  on  his  two  hands 
over  the  table  and  looking  at  his  uncle. 

"Eichard  ?" 

"Yes,  your  nephew:  my  cousin:  Richard!  Your  com- 
panion since  you've  been  in  town.  He's  married,  you 
know.  Married  this  morning  at  Kensington  parish 
church,  by  licence,  at  half-past  eleven  of  the  clock,  or 
twenty  to  twelve.  .Married,  and  gone  to  spend  his  honey- 
moon in  the  Isle  of  Wight :  a  very  delectable  place  for  a 
month's  residence.  I  have  to  announce  to  you  that,  thanks 
to  your  assistance,  the  experiment  is  launched,  sir!" 

"Richard  married!" 

There  was  something  to  think  and  to  say  in  objection 
to  it,  but  the  wits  of  poor  Hippias  was  softened  by  the 
shock.  His  hand  travelled  half-way  to  his  forehead, 
spread  out  to  smooth  the  surface  of  that  seat  of  reason, 
and  then  fell. 

"Surely  you  knew  all  about  it?  you  were  so  anxious  to 
have  him  in  town  under  your  charge." 

"Married?"  Hippias  jumped  up — he  had  it.  "Why, 
he's  \inder  age!  he's  an  infant." 


PROCESSION  OF  THE   CAKE  267 

"So  he  is.  But  the  infant  is  not  the  less  married.  Fib 
like  a  man  and  pay  your  fee — what  does  it  matter?  Any 
one  who  is  breeched  can  obtain  a  licence  in  our  noble  coun- 
try. And  the  interests  of  morality  demand  that  it  should 
not  be  difficult.  Is  it  true — can  you  persuade  anybody 
that  you  have  known  nothing  about  it?" 

"Ha!  infamous  joke!  I  wish,  sir,  you  would  play  your 
pranks  on  somebody  else,"  said  Hippias,  sternly,  as  he 
sank  back  on  the  sofa.  "You've  done  me  up  for  the  day, 
I  can  assure  you." 

Adrian  sat  down  to  instil  belief  by  gentle  degrees,  and 
put  an  artistic  finish  to  the  work.  He  had  the  gratification 
of  passing  his  uncle  through  varied  contortions,  and  at 
last  Hippias  perspired  in  conviction,  and  exclaimed,  "This 
accounts  for  his  conduct  to  me.  That  boy  must  have  a 
cunning  nothing  short  of  infernal !  I  feel  ...  I  feel 
it  just  here,"  he  drew  a  hand  along  his  midriff. 

"I'm  not  equal  to  this  world  of  fools,"  he  added  faintly, 
and  shut  his  eyes.  "No,  I  can't  dine.  Eat?  ha!  .  .  . 
no.    Go  without  me!" 

Shortly  after  Hippias  went  to  bed,  saying  to  himself,  as 
he  undressed,  "See  what  comes  of  our  fine  schemes !  Poor 
Austin !"  and  as  the  pillow  swelled  over  his  ears,  "I'm  not 
sure  that  a  day's  fast  won't  do  me  good."  The  Dyspepsy 
had  bought  his  philosophy  at  a  heavy  price ;  he  had  a  right 
to  use  it. 

Adrian  resumed  the  procession  of  the  cake. 

He  sighted  his  melancholy  uncle  Algernon  hunting  an 
appetite  in  the  Row,  and  looking  as  if  the  hope  ahead  of 
him  were  also  one-legged.  The  Captain  did  not  pass  with- 
out querying  the  ungainly  parcel. 

"I  hope  I  carry  it  ostentatiously  enough  ?"  said  Adrian. 
"Enclosed  is  wherewithal  to  quiet  the  alarm  of  the  land. 
Now  may  the  maids  and  wives  of  Merry  England  sleep  se- 
cure. I  had  half  a  mind  to  fix  it  on  a  pole,  and  engage  a 
band  to  parade  it.  This  is  our  dear  Richard's  wedding- 
cake.  Married  at  half-past  eleven  this  morning,  by  li- 
cence, at  the  Kensington  parish  church;  his  own  ring 
being  lost  he  employed  the  ring  of  his  beautiful  bride's 
lachrymose  landlady,  she  standing  adjacent  by  the  altar. 
His  farewell  to  you  as  a  bachelor,  and  hers  as  a  maid,  you 


268      THE  ORDEAL  OF  III  CHARD  FEVEREL 

can.  claim  on  the  spot,  if  you  think  proper,  and  digest  ac- 
cording to  your  powers." 

Algernon  let  off  steam  in  a  whistle.  "Thompson,  the 
solicitor's  daughter!"  he  said.  "I  met  them  the  other  day, 
somewhere  about  here.  He  introduced  me  to  her.  A 
pretty  little  baggage." 

"No."  Adrian  set  him  right.  "  'Tis  a  Miss  Desborough, 
a  Roman  Catholic  dairymaid.  Reminds  one  of  pastoral 
England  in  the  time  of  the  Plantagenets!  He's  quite 
equal  to  introducing  her  as  Thompson's  daughter,  and 
himself  as  Beelzebub's  son.  However,  the  wild  animal  is 
in  Hymen's  chains,  and  the  cake  is  cut.  Will  you  have 
your  morsel?" 

"Oh,  by  all  means! — not  now."  Algernon  had  an  un- 
wonted air  of  reflection. — "Father  know  it?" 

"Not  yet.     He  will  to-night  by  nine  o'clock." 

"Then  I  must  see  him  by  seven.  Don't  say  you  met 
me."    He  nodded,  and  pricked  his  horse. 

"Wants  money!"  said  Adrian,  putting  the  combustible 
he  carried  once  more  in  motion. 

The  women  were  the  crowning  joy  of  his  contemplative 
mind.  He  had  reserved  them  for  his  final  discharge.  Dear 
demonstrative  creatures !  Dyspepsia  would  not  weaken 
their  poignant  outcries,  or  self-interest  check  their  faint- 
ing fits.  On  the  generic  woman  one  could  calculate.  Well 
might  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip  say  of  her  that,  "She  is  always 
at  Nature's  breast";  not  intending  it  as  a  compliment. 
Each  woman  is  Eve  throughout  the  ages;  whereas  the 
Pilgrim  would  have  us  believe  that  the  Adam  in  men  has 
become  warier,  if  not  wiser;  and  weak  as  he  is,  has  learnt 
a  lesson  from  time.  Probably  the  Pilgrim's  meaning  may 
be  taken  to  be,  that  Man  grows,  and  Woman  does  not. 

At  any  rate,  Adrian  hoped  for  such  natural  choruses  as 
you  hear  in  the  nursery  when  a  bauble  is  lost.  He  was 
awake  to  Mrs.  Doria's  maternal  predestinations,  and 
guessed  that  Clare  stood  ready  with  the  best  form  of  filial 
obedience.  They  were  only  a  poor  couple  to  gratify  his 
Mephistophelian  humour,  to  be  sure,  but  Mrs.  Doria  was 
equal  to  twenty,  and  they  would  proclaim  the  diverse  ways 
with  which  maidenhood  and  womanhood  took  disappoint- 
ment, while  the  surrounding  Forey  girls  and  other  females 
of  the  family  assembly  were  expected  to  develop  the  finer 


PROCESSION"  OF   THE  CAKE  269 

shades  and  tapering  edges  of  an  agitation  to  which  no 
woman  could  be  cold. 

All  went  well.  He  managed  cleverly  to  leave  the  cake 
unchallenged  in  a  conspicuous  part  of  the  drawing-room, 
and  stepped  gaily  down  to  dinner.  Much  of  the  conver- 
sation adverted  to  Eichard.  Mrs.  Doria  asked  him  if  he 
had  seen  the  youth,  or  heard  of  him. 

"Seen  him?  no!  Heard  of  him?  yes!"  said  Adrian.  "I 
have  heard  of  him.  I  heard  that  he  was  sublimely  happy, 
and  had  eaten  such  a  breakfast  that  dinner  was  impos- 
sible; claret  and  cold  chicken,  cake  and" 

"Cake  at  breakfast!"  they  all  interjected. 

"That  seems  to  be  his  fancy  just  now." 

"What  an  extraordinary  taste!" 

"You  know,  he  is  educated  on  a  System." 

One  fast  young  male  Forey  allied  the  System  and  the 
cake  in  a  miserable  pun.  Adrian,  a  hater  of  puns,  looked 
at  him,  and  held  the  table  silent,  as  if  he  were  going  to 
speak ;  but  he  said  nothing,  and  the  young  gentleman  van- 
ished from  the  conversation  in  a  blush,  extinguished  by  his 
own  spark. 

Mrs.  Doria  peevishly  exclaimed,  "Oh!  fish-cake,  I  sup- 
pose !  I  wish  he  understood  a  little  better  the  obligations 
of  relationship." 

"Whether  he  understands  them,  I  can't  say,"  observed 
Adrian,  "but  I  assure  you  he  is  very  energetic  in  extend- 
ing them." 

The  wise  youth  talked  innuendoes  whenever  he  had  an 
opportunity,  that  his  dear  relative  might  be  rendered  suffi- 
ciently inflammable  by  and  by  at  the  aspect  of  the  cake; 
but  he  was  not  thought  more  than  commonly  mysterious 
and  deep. 

"Was  his  appointment  at  the  house  of  those  Grandison 
people?"  Mrs.  Doria  asked,  with  a  hostile  upper-lip.  _ 

Adrian  warmed  the  blindfolded  parties  by  replying, 
"Do  they  keep  a  beadle  at  the  door?" 

Mrs.  Doria's  animosity  to  Mrs.  Grandison  made  her 
treat  this  as  a  piece  of  satirical  ingenuousness.  "I  dare- 
say they  do,"  she  said. 

"And  a  curate  on  hand?" 

"Oh,  I  should  think  a  dozen!" 

Old  Mr.  Forey  advised  his  punning  grandson  Clarence 


270       THE  ORDKAI,  OF  RICHARD  FEYFRFL 

to  give  that  house  a  wide  berth,  whore  he  might  be  dis- 
posed of  and  dished-up  at  a  moment's  notice,  and  the 
scent  ran  off  at  a  jest. 

The  Foreys  pave  pood  dinners,  and  with  the  old  gentle- 
man the  excellent  old  fashion  remained  in  permanence  of 
trooping  off  the  ladies  as  soon  as  they  had  taken  their 
sustenance  and  just,  exchanged  a  smile  with  the  flowers 
and  the  di^-crt.  when  they  rose  to  fade  with  a  beautiful 
accord,  and  the  gallant  males  breathed  under  easier  waist- 
coats, and  settled  to  the  business  of  the  table,  sure  that 
an  hour  for  unbosoming  and  imbibing  was  their  own. 
Adrian  took  a  chair  by  Brandon  Forey,  a  barrister  of 
standing. 

"I  want  to  ask  you,"  he  said,  "whether  an  infant  in 
law  can  legally  bind  himself." 

"If  he's  old  enough  to  affix  his  signature  to  an  instru- 
ment, I  suppose  he  can,"  yawned  Brandon. 

"Is  he  responsible  for  his  acts?" 

"I've  no  doubt  we  could  hang  him." 

"Then  what  he  could  do  for  himself,  you  could  do  for 
him?" 

"Not  quite  so  much ;  pretty  near." 

"For  instance,  he  can  marry?" 

"That's  not  a  criminal  case,  you  know." 

"And  the  marriage  is  valid?" 

"You  can  dispute  it." 

"Yes,  and  the  Greeks  and  the  Trojans  can  fight.  It 
holds  then?" 

"Both  water  and  fire!"       • 

The  patriarch  of  the  table  sang  out  to  Adrian  that  he 
stopped  the  vigorous  circulation  of  the  claret. 

"Dear  me,  sir!"  said  Adrian,  "I  beg  pardon.  The  cir- 
cumstances must  excuse  me.  The  fact  is,  my  cousin 
Richard  got  married  to  a  dairymaid  this  morning,  and  I 
wanted  to  know  whether  it  held  in  law." 

It  was  amusing  to  watch  the  manly  coolness  with  which 
the  announcement  was  taken.  Nothing  was  heard  more 
energetic  than,  "Deuce  he  has!"  and,  "A  dairymaid!" 

"I  thought  it  better  to  let  the  ladies  dine  in  peace," 
Adrian  continued.  "I  wanted  to  be  able  to  console  my 
aunt" 

"Well,   but — well,   but,"   the  old   gentleman,   much   the 


PKOCESSION"  OF  THE  CAKE  271 

most  excited,  puffed — "eh,  Brandon?  He's  a  boy,  this 
young  ass !  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  a  boy  can  go  and 
marry  when  he  pleases,  and  any  trull  he  pleases,  and  the 
marriage  is  good?  If  I  thought  that  I'd  turn  every 
woman  off  my  premises.  I  would!  from  the  housekeeper 
to  the  scullery-maid.  I'd  have  no  woman  near  him  till — 
till" 

"Till  the  young  greenhorn  was  grey,  sir?"  suggested 
Brandon. 

"Till  he  knew  what  women  are  made  of,  sir!"  the  old 
gentleman  finished  his  sentence  vehemently.  "What,  d'ye 
think,  will  Feverel  say  to  it,  Mr.  Adrian?" 

"He  has  been  trying  the  very  System  you  have  proposed, 
sir — one  that  does  not  reckon  on  the  powerful  action  of 
curiosity  on  the  juvenile  intelligence.  I'm  afraid  it's  the 
very  worst  way  of  solving  the  problem." 

"Of  course  it  is,"  said  Clarence.  "None  but  a  fool !" 

"At  your  age,"  Adrian  relieved  his  embarrassment,  "it 
is  natural,  my  dear  Clarence,  that  you  should  consider 
the  idea  of  an  isolated  or  imprisoned  manhood  something 
monstrous,  and  we  do  not  expect  you  to  see  what  amount 
of  wisdom  it  contains.  You  follow  one  extreme,  and  we 
the  other.  I  don't  say  that  a  middle  course  exists.  The 
history  of  mankind  shows  our  painful  efforts  to  find  one, 
but  they  have  invariably  resolved  themselves  into  ascet- 
icism, or  laxity,  acting  and  reacting.  The  moral  question 
is,  if  a  naughty  little  man,  by  reason  of  his  naughtiness, 
releases  himself  from  foolishness,  does  a  foolish  little  man, 
by  reason  of  his  foolishness,  save  himself  from  naughti- 
ness ?" 

A  discussion,  peculiar  to  men  of  the  world,  succeeded 
the  laugh  at  Mr.  Clarence.  Then  coffee  was  handed  round 
and  the  footman  informed  Adrian,  in  a  low  voice,  that 
Mrs.  Doria  Forey  particularly  wished  to  speak  with  him. 
Adrian  preferred  not  to  go  in  alone.  "Very  well,"  he 
said,  and  sipped  his  coffee.  They  talked  on,  sounding  the 
depths  of  law  in  Brandon  Forey,  and  receiving  nought 
but  hollow  echoes  from  that  profound  cavity.  He  would 
not^  affirm  that  the  marriage  was  invalid:  he  would  not 
affirm  that  it  could  not  be  annulled.  He  thought  not: 
still    he    thought    it    would    be    worth    trying.      A    con- 


272      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

eummatcd    and     a    non-consummated     union     were     two 
dilTorent  things.     .     .     . 

"Dear  me!"  said  Adrian,  "does  the  Law  recognize  that? 
Why,  that's  almost  human!" 

Another  message  was  brought  to  Adrian  that  Mrs. 
Doria  Forey  very  particularly  wished  to  speak  with  him. 

"What  can  be  the  matter?"  he  exclaimed,  pleased  to 
have  his  faith  in  woman  strengthened.  The  cake  had  ex- 
ploded, no  doubt. 

So  it  proved,  when  the  gentlemen  joined  the  fair  society. 
All  the  younger  ladies  stood  about  the  table,  whereon  the 
cake  stood  displayed,  gaps  being  left  for  those  sitting  to 
feast  their  vision,  and  intrude  the  comments  and  specula- 
tions continually  arising  from  fresh  shocks  of  wonder  at 
the  unaccountable  apparition.  Entering  with  the  half- 
guilty  air  of  men  who  know  they  have  come  from  a  grosser 
atmosphere,  the  gallant  males  also  ranged  themselves 
round  the  common  object  of  curiosity. 

"Here!  Adrian!"  Mrs.  Doria  cried.  "Where  is  Adrian? 
Pray,  come  here.  Tell  me!  Where  did  this  cake  come 
from?  Whose  is  it?  What  does  it  do  here?  You  know 
all  about  it,  for  you  brought  it.  Clare  saw  you  bring  it 
into  the  room.  What  does  it  mean?  I  insist  upon  a 
direct  answer.     Now  do  not  make  me  impatient,  Adrian." 

Certainly  Mrs.  Doria  was  equal  to  twenty.  By  her  con- 
centrated rapidity  and  volcanic  complexion  it  was  evident 
that  suspicion  had  kindled. 

"I  was  really  bound  to  bring  it,"  Adrian  protested. 

"Answer  me!" 

The  wise  youth  bowed :  "Categorically.  This  cake  came 
from  the  house  of  a  person,  a  female,  of  the  name  of 
Berry.  It  belongs  to  you  partly,  partly  to  me,  partly  to 
Clare,  and  to  the  rest  of  our  family,  on  the  principle  of 
equal  division :  for  which  purpose  it  is  present.     .     .     ." 

"Yes!     Speak!" 

"It  means,  my  dear  aunt,  what  that  kind  of  cake  usually 
does  mean." 

"This,  then,  is  the  Breakfast!  And  the  ring!  Adrian! 
where  is  Richard  ?" 

Mrs.  Doria  still  clung  to  unbelief  in  the  monstrous 
horror. 

But  when  Adrian  told  her  that  Richard  had  left  town, 


PKOCESSION"  OF  THE  CAKE  273 

her  struggling  hope  sank.  "The  wretched  boy  has  ruined 
himself!"  she  said,  and  sat  down  trembling. 

Oh!  that  System!  The  delicate  vituperations  gentle 
ladies  use  instead  of  oaths,  Mrs.  Doria  showered  on  that 
System.  She  hesitated  not  to  say  that  her  brother  had  got 
what  he  deserved.  Opinionated,  morbid,  weak,  justice  had 
overtaken  him.  Now  he  would  see!  but  at  what  a  price! 
at  what  a  sacrifice! 

Mrs.  Doria  commanded  Adrian  to  confirm  her  fears. 

Sadly  the  wise  youth  recapitulated  Berry's  words.  "He 
was  married  this  morning  at  half-past  eleven  of  the  clock, 
or  twenty  to  twelve,  by  licence,  at  the  Kensington  parish 
church." 

"Then  that  was  his  appointment!"  Mrs.  Doria  mur- 
mured. 

"That  was  the  cake  for  breakfast !"  breathed  a  second  of 
her  sex. 

"And  it  was  his  ring!"  exclaimed  a  third. 

The  men  were  silent,  and  made  long  faces. 

Clare  stood  cold  and  sedate.  She  and  her  mother 
avoided  each  other's  eyes. 

"Is  it  that  abominable  country  person,  Adrian?" 

"The  happy  damsel  is,  I  regret  to  say,  the  Papist  dairy- 
maid," said  Adrian,  in  sorrowful  but  deliberate  accents. 

Then  arose  a  feminine  hum,  in  the  midst  of  which  Mrs. 
Doria  cried,  "Brandon !"  She  was  a  woman  of  energy. 
Her  thoughts  resolved  to  action  spontaneously. 

"Brandon,"  she  drew  the  barrister  a  little  aside,  "can 
they  not  be  followed,  and  separated  ?  I  want  your  advice. 
Cannot  we  separate  them?  A  boy!  it  is  really  shameful 
if  he  should  be  allowed  to  fall  into  the  toils  of  a  designing 
creature  to  ruin  himself  irrevocably.  Can  we  not,  Bran- 
don?" 

The  worthy  barrister  felt  inclined  to  laugh,  but  he  an- 
swered her  entreaties :  "From  what  I  hear  of  the  young 
groom  I  should  imagine  the  office  perilous." 

"I'm  speaking  of  law,  Brandon.  Can  we  not  obtain  an 
order  from  one  of  your  Courts  to  pursue  them  and  sep- 
arate them  instantly?" 

"This  evening?" 

"Yes!" 

Brandon  was  sorry  to  say  she  decidedly  could  not. 


274      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"You  might  call  on  one  of  your  Judges,  Brandon." 

Brandon  assured  her  that  the  Judges  were  a  hard- 
worked  race,  and  to  a  man  slept  heavily  after  dinner. 

"Will  you  do  so  to-morrow,  the  first  thing  in  the  morn- 
ing? Will  you  promise  me  to  do  so,  Brandon? — Or  a 
magistrate!  A  magistrate  woidd  send  a  policeman  after 
them.  My  dear  Brandon!  I  beg — I  beg  you  to  assist  us 
in  this  dreadful  extremity.  It  will  be  the  death  of  my 
poor  brother.  I  believe  he  would  forgive  anything  but 
this.     You  have  no  idea  what  his  notions  are  of  blood." 

Brandon  tipped  Adrian  a  significant  nod  to  step  in  and 
aid. 

"What  is  it,  aunt?"  asked  the  wise  youth.  "You  want 
them  followed  and  torn  asunder  by  wild  policemen?" 

"To-morrow;"  Brandon  queerly  interposed. 

'Won't  that  be — just  too  late?"  Adrian  suggested. 

Mrs.  Doria  sighed  out  her  last  spark  of  hope. 

"You  see,"  said  Adrian.  .  .  . 

"Yes!  yes!"  Mrs.  Doria  did  not  require  any  of  his 
elucidations.  "Pray  be  quiet,  Adrian,  and  let  me  speak. 
Brandon!  it  cannot  be!  it's  quite  impossible!  Can  you 
stand  there  and  tell  me  that  boy  is  legally  married  ?  I 
never  will  believe  it!  The  law  cannot  be  so  shamefully 
bad  as  to  permit  a  boy — a  mere  child — to  do  such  absurd 
things.  Grandpapa!"  she  beckoned  to  the  old  gentleman. 
"Grandpapa!  pray  do  make  Brandon  speak.  These  law- 
yers never  will.  He  might  stop  it,  if  he  would.  If  I  were 
a  man,  do  you  think  I  would  stand  here?" 

"Well,  my  dear,"  the  old  gentleman  toddled  to  compose 
her,  "I'm  quite  of  your  opinion.  I  believe  he  knows  no 
more  than  you  or  I.  My  belief  is  they  none  of  them  know 
anything  till  they  join  issue  and  go  into  Court.  I  want 
to  see  a  few  female  lawyers." 

"To  encourage  the  bankrupt  perruquier,  sir?"  said 
Adrian.  "They  would  have  to  keep  a  large  supply  of  wiga 
on  hand." 

"And  you  can  jest,  Adrian !"  his  aunt  reproached  him. 
"But  I  will  not  be  beaten.  I  know — I  am  firmly  convinced 
that  no  law  would  ever  allow  a  boy  to  disgrace  his  family 
and  ruin  himself  like  that,  and  nothing  shall  persuade  me 
that  it  is  so.  Now,  tell  me,  Brandon,  and  pray  do  speak  in 
answer  to  my  questions,  and  please  to  forget  you  are  deal- 


PROCESSION  OF   THE   CAKE  275 

ing  with  a  woman.  Can  my  nephew  be  rescued  from  the 
consequences  of  his  folly  ?  Is  what  he  has  done  legitimate  ? 
Is  he  bound  for  life  by  what  he  has  done  while  a  boy?" 

"Well — a,"  Brandon  breathed  through  his  teeth. 
"A — hm!  the  matter's  so  very  delicate,  you  see,  Helen." 

"You're  to  forget  that,"  Adrian  remarked. 

"A — hm!  well!"  pursued  Brandon.  "Perhaps  if  you 
could  arrest  and  divide  them  before  nightfall,  and  make 
affidavit  of  certain  facts"  .  .  . 

"Yes  ?"  the  eager  woman  hastened  his  lagging  mouth. 

"Well  .  .  .  hm!  a  .  .  .in  that  case  .  .  .  a  .  .  .  Or 
if  a  lunatic,  you  could  prove  him  to  have  been  of  unsound 
mind."  .    .    . 

"Oh!  there's  no  doubt  of  his  madness  on  my  mind, 
Brandon." 

"Yes!  well!  in  that  case  ...  Or  if  of  different  religious 
persuasions"  .  .  . 

"She  is  a  Catholic!"  Mrs.  Doria  joyfully  interjected. 

"Yes!  well!  in  that  case  .  .  .  objections  might  be  taken 
to  the  form  of  the  marriage  .  .  .     Might  be  proved  tic 
titious.   ...   Or  if  he's  under,  say,  eighteen  years." 

"He  can't  be  much  more,"  cried  Mrs.  Doria.  "I  think," 
she  appeared  to  reflect,  and  then  faltered  imploringly  to 
Adrian,  "What  is  Richard's  age?" 

The  kind  wise  youth  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to 
strike  away  the  phantom  straw  she  caught  at. 

"Oh!  about  that,  I  should  fancy,"  he  muttered,  and 
found  it  necessary  at  the  same  time  to  duck  and  turn  h'S 
head  for  concealment.  Mrs.  Doria  surpassed  his  expecta- 
tions. 

"Yes!  well,  then  .  .  ."  Brandon  was  resuming  with  a 
shrug,  which  was  meant  to  say  he  still  pledged  himself  to 
nothing,  when  Clare's  voice  was  heard  from  out  the  buzz- 
ing circle  of  her  cousins:  "Richard  is  nineteen  years  and 
six  months  old  to-day,  mama." 

"Nonsense,  child." 

"He  is,  mama."     Clare's  voice  was  very  steadfast. 

"Nonsense,  I  tell  you.     How  can  you  know?" 

"Richard  is  one  year  and  nine  months  older  than  me, 
mama." 

Mrs.  Doria  fought  the  fact  by  years  and  finally  by 
months.     Clare  was  too  strong  for  her. 


l>7.;      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"Singular  child!*'   she  mentally  apostrophized   the  girl 
who  scornfully  rejected  straws  while  drowning. 

"But  there's  the  religion  still!"  she  comforted  herself, 
and  sat  down  to  cogitate. 

The  men  smiled  and  looked  vacuous. 

Music  was  proposed.  There  are  times  when  soft  music 
hath  not  charms;  when  it  is  put  to  as  base  uses  as  Imperial 
Caesar's  dust  and  is  taken  to  fill  horrid  pauses.  Angelica 
Forey  thumped  the  piano,  and  sang:  "I'm  a  laughing 
Gitana,  ha — ha!  ha — ha!"  Matilda  Forey  and  her  cousin 
Mary  Bransburne  wedded  their  voices,  and  songfully  in- 
cited all  young  people  to  Haste  to  the  bower  that  love  has 
built,  and  defy  the  wise  ones  of  the  world;  but  the  wise 
ones  of  the  world  were  in  a  majority  there,  and  very  few 
places  of  assembly  will  be  found  where  they  are  not;  so 
the  glowing  appeal  of  the  British  ballad-monger  passed 
into  the  bosom  of  the  emptiness  he  addressed.  Clare  was 
asked  to  entertain  the  company.  The  singular  child 
calmly  marched  to  the  instrument,  and  turned  over  the 
appropriate  illustrations  to  the  ballad-monger's  reper- 
tory. 

Clare  sang  a  little  Irish  air.  Her  duty  done,  she 
marched  from  the  piano.  Mothers  are  rarely  deceived  by 
their  daughters  in  these  matters;  but  Clare  deceived  her 
mother;  and  Mrs.  Doria  only  persisted  in  feeling  an  agony 
of  pity  for  her  child,  that  she  might  the  more  warrantably 
pity  herself — a  not  uncommon  form  of  the  emotion,  for 
there  is  no  juggler  like  that  heart  the  ballad-monger  puts 
into  our  mouths  so  boldly.  Remember  that  she  saw  years 
of  self-denial,  years  of  a  ripening  scheme,  rendered  fruit- 
less in  a  minute,  and  by  the  System  which  had  almost 
red'-ced  her  to  the  condition  of  constitutional  hypocrite. 
She  had  enough  of  bitterness  to  brood  over,  and  some 
excuse  for  self-pity. 

Still,  even  when  she  was  cooler,  Mrs.  Doria's  energetic 
nature  prevented  her  from  giving  up.  Straws  were 
straws,  and  the  frailer  they  were  the  harder  she  clutched 
them. 

Sbe  rose  from  her  chair,  and  left  the  room,  calling  to 
Adrian  to  follow  her. 

"Adrian,"  she  said,  turning  upon  him  in  the  passage, 
"you   mentioned    a   house   where   this   horrible   cake   .  .  . 


PROCESSION  OF   THE  CAKE  277 

where  he  was  this  morning.  I  desire  you  to  take  me  to 
that  woman  immediately." 

The  wise  youth  had  not  bargained  for  personal  servi- 
tude. He  had  hoped  he  should  be  in  time  for  the  last  act 
of  the  opera  that  night,  after  enjoying  the  comedy  of 
real  life. 

"My  dear  aunt"  ...  he  was  beginning  to  insinuate. 

"Order  a  cab  to  be  sent  for,  and  get  your  hat,"  said  Mrs. 
Doria. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  obey.  He  stamped  his 
assent  to  the  Pilgrim's  dictum,  that  Women  are  practical 
creatures,  and  now  reflected  on  his  own  account,  that  rela- 
tionship to  a  young  fool  may  be  a  vexation  and  a  nuisance. 
However,  Mrs.  Doria  compensated  him. 

What  Mrs.  Doria  intended  to  do,  the  practical  creature 
did  not  plainly  know;  but  her  energy  positively  demanded 
to  be  used  in  some  way  or  other,  and  her  instinct  directed 
her  to  the  offender  on  whom  she  could  use  it  in  wrath. 
She  wanted  somebody  to  be  angry  with,  somebody  to 
abuse.  She  dared  not  abuse  her  brother  to  his  face:  him 
she  would  have  to  console.  Adrian  was  a  fellow-hypocrite 
to  the  System,  and  would,  she  was  aware,  bring  her  into 
painfully  delicate,  albeit  highly  philosophic,  ground  by  a 
discussion  of  the  case.  So  she  drove  to  Bessy  Berry  simply 
to  inquire  whither  her  nephew  had  flown. 

When  a  soft  woman,  and  that  soft  woman  a  sinner,  is 
matched  with  a  woman  of  energy,  she  does  not  show  much 
fight,  and  she  meets  no  mercy.  Bessy  Berry's  creditor 
came  to  her  in  female  form  that  night.  She  then  beheld 
it  in  all  its  terrors.  Hitherto  it  had  appeared  to  her  as  p. 
male,  a  disembodied  spirit  of  her  imagination  possessing 
male  attributes,  and  the  peculiar  male  characteristic  of 
being  moved,  and  ultimately  silenced,  by  tears.  As 
female,  her  creditor  was  terrible  indeed.  Still,  had  it  not 
been  a  late  hour,  Bessy  Berry  would  have  died  rather 
than  speak  openly  that  her  babes  had  sped  to  make  their 
nest  in  the  Isle  of  Wight.  They  had  a  long  start,  they 
were  out  of  the  reach  of  pursuers,  they  were  safe,  and  she 
told  what  she  had  to  tell.  She  told  more  than  was  wise 
of  her  to  tell.  She  made  mention  of  her  early  service  in 
the  family,  and  of  her  little  pension.  Alas !  her  little 
pension !     Her  creditor  had  come  expecting  no  payment — 


278      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

come,  as  creditors  are  wont  in  such  moods,  just  to  take 
it  out  of  her — to  employ  the  familiar  term.  At  once  Mrs. 
Doria  pounced  upon  the  pension. 

"That,  of  course,  you  know  is  at  an  end,"  she  said  in 
the  calmest  manner,  and  Berry  did  not  plead  for  the  little 
bit  of  bread  to  her.  She  only  asked  a  little  consideration 
for  her  feelings. 

True  admirers  of  women  had  better  stand  aside  from 
the  scene.  Undoubtedly  it  was  very  sad  for  Adrian  to  be 
compelled  to  witness  it.  Mrs.  Doria  was  not  generous. 
The  Pilgrim  may  be  wrong  about  the  sex  not  growing; 
but  its  fashion  of  conducting  warfare  we  must  allow  to 
be  barbarous,  and  according  to  what  is  deemed  the 
pristine,  or  wild  cat,  method.  Ruin,  nothing  short  of  it, 
accompanied  poor  Berry  to  her  bed  that  night,  and  her 
character  bled  till  morning  on  her  pillow. 

The  scene  over,  Adrian  reconducted  Mrs.  Doria  to  her 
home.  Mice  had  been  at  the  cake  during  her  absence 
apparently.  The  ladies  and  gentlemen  present  put  it  on 
the  greedy  mice,  who  were  accused  of  having  gorged  and 
gone  to  bed. 

"I'm  sure  they're  quite  welcome,"  said  Mrs.  Doria.  "It's 
a  farce,  this  marriage,  and  Adrian  has  quite  come  to  my 
way  of  thinking.  I  would  not  touch  an  atom  of  it.  Why, 
they  were  married  in  a  married  woman's  ring!  Can  that 
be  legal,  as  you  call  it?  Oh,  I'm  convinced!  Don't  tell 
me.  Austin  will  be  in  town  to-morrow,  and  if  he  is  true 
to  his  principles,  he  will  instantly  adopt  measures  to 
rescue  his  son  from  infamy.  I  want  no  legal  advice.  I 
go  upon  common  sense,  common  decency.  This  marriage 
is  false." 

Mrs.  Doria's  fine  scheme  had  become  so  much  a  part  of 
her  life,  that  she  could  not  give  it  up.  She  took  Clare  to 
her  bed,  and  caressed  and  wept  over  her,  as  she  would  not 
have  done  hod  she  known  the  singular  child,  saying,  "Poor 
Richard!  my  dear  poor  boy!  we  must  save  him,  Clare!  we 
must  save  him!"  Of  the  two  the  mother  showed  the 
greater  want  of  iron  on  this  occasion.  Clare  lay  in  her 
arms  rigid  and  emotionless,  with  one  of  her  hands  tight- 
locked.  All  she  said  was:  "I  knew  it  in  the  morning, 
mama."     She  slept  clasping  Richard's  nuptial  ring. 

By  this  time  all  specially  concerned  in  the  System  knew 


NURSING   THE  DEVIL  279 

it.  The  honeymoon  was  shining  placidly  above  them,  is 
not  happiness  like  another  circulating  medium?  When 
we  have  a  very  great  deal  of  it,  some  poor  hearts  are 
aching  for  what  is  taken  away  from  them.  When  we  have 
gone  out  and  seized  it  on  the  highways,  certain  inscru- 
table laws  are  sure  to  be  at  work  to  bring  us  to  the  criminal 
bar,  sooner  or  later.  Who  knows  the  honeymoon  tha; 
did  not  steal  somebody's  sweetness  ?  Richard  Turpin  went 
forth,  singing  "Money  or  life"  to  the  world:  Eichard 
Eeverel  has  done  the  same,  substituting  ''Happiness" 
for  "Money,"  frequently  synonyms.  The  coin  he  wanted 
he  would  have,  and  was  just  as  much  a  highway  robber 
f„s  his  fellow  Dick,  so  that  those  who  have  failed  to 
recognize  him  as  a  hero  before,  may  now  regard  him 
in  that  light.  Meanwhile  the  world  he  has  squeezed  looks 
exceedingly  patient  and  beautiful.  His  coin  chinks  deli- 
cious music  to  him.  Nature  and  the  order  of  things  on 
earth  have  no  warmer  admirer  than  a  jolly  brigand  or 
a  young  man  made  happy  by  the  Jews. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 
NURSING  THE  DEVIL 

And  now  the  author  of  the  System  was  on  trial  under 
the  eyes  of  the  lady  who  loved  him.  What  so  kind  as 
they?  Yet  are  they  very  rigorous,  those  soft  watchful 
woman's  eyes.  If  you  are  below  the  measure  they  have 
made  of  you,  you  will  feel  it  in  the  fulness  of  time. 
She  cannot  but  show  you  that  she  took  you  for  a  giant, 
and  has  had  to  come  down  a  bit.  You  feel  yourself 
strangely  diminishing  in  those  sweet  mirrors,  till  at  last 
they  drop  on  you  complacently  level.  But,  oh,  beware, 
vain  man,  of  ever  waxing  enamoured  of  that  wonderful 
elongation  of  a  male  creature  you  saw  reflected  in  her 
adoring  upcast  orbs!  Beware  of  assisting  to  delude  her! 
A  woman  who  is  not  quite  a  fool  will  forgive  your  being 
but  a  man,  if  you  are  surely  that:  she  will  haply  learn 
to  acknowledge  that  no  mortal  tailor  could  have  fitted 
that  figure  she  made  of  you  respectably,  and  that  prac- 


280      THE  ORDEAL  OE  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

tically  (though  she  sighs  to  think  it)  her  ideal  of  you 
was  on  the  pattern  of  an  overgrown  charity-boy  in  the 
regulation  jacket  and  breech.  For  this  she  first  scorns 
the  narrow  capacities  of  the  tailor,  and  then  smiles  at 
herself.  But  shouldst  thou,  when  the  hour  says  plainly, 
Be  thyself,  and  the  woman  is  willing  to  take  thee  as 
thou  art,  shouldst  thou  still  aspire  to  be  that  thing  of 
shanks  and  wrists,  wilt  thou  not  seem  contemptible  as 
well  as  ridiculous?  And  when  the  fall  comes,  will  it 
not  be  flat  on  thy  face,  instead  of  to  the  common  height 
of  men  ?  You  may  fall  miles  below  her  measure  of  you, 
and  be  safe:  nothing  is  damaged  save  an  overgrown 
charity-boy;  but  if  you  fall  below  the  common  height 
of  men,  you  must  make  up  your  mind  to  see  her  rustle 
her  gown,  spy  at  the  looking-glass,  and  transfer  her 
allegiance.  The  moral  of  which  is,  that  if  we  pretend 
to  be  what  we  are  not,  woman,  for  whose  amusement  the 
farce  is  performed,  will  find  us  out  and  punish  us  for  it. 
And  it  is  usually  the  end  of  a  sentimental  dalliance. 

Had  Sir  Austin  given  vent  to  the  pain  and  wrath  it 
was  natural  he  should  feel,  he  might  have  gone  to  un- 
philosophic  excesses,  and,  however  much  he  lowered  his 
reputation  as  a  sage,  Lady  Blandish  would  have  excused 
him:  sbe  would  not  have  loved  him  less  for  seeing  him 
closer.  But  the  poor  gentleman  tasked  his  soul  and 
stretched  his  muscles  to  act  up  to  her  conception  of 
h'm.  He,  a  man  of  science  in  life,  who  was  bound  to 
bo  surprised  by  nothing  in  nature,  it  was  not  for  him 
to  do  more  than  lift  his  eyebrows  and  draw  in  his  lips 
at  the  news  delivered  by  Ripton  Thompson,  that  ill  bird 
at  Raynham. 

All  he  said,  after  Ripton  had  handed  the  letters  and 
carried  his  penitential  headache  to  bed,  was:  "You  see, 
Emmeline,  it  is  useless  to  base  any  system  on  a  human 
being." 

A  very  philosophical  remark  for  one  who  has  been  busily 
at  work  building  for  nearly  twenty  years.  Too  philosophi- 
cal to  seem  genuine.  It  revealed  where  the  blow  struck 
sharpest.  Richard  was  no  longer  the  Richard  of  his  crea- 
tion— his  pride  and  his  joy — but  simply  a  human  being 
with  the  rest.  The  bright  star  had  sunk  among  the 
masa. 


NURSING  THE  DEVIL  281 

And  yet,  what  had  the  young  man  done  ?  And  in  what 
had  the  System  failed? 

The  lady  could  not  but  ask  herself  this,  while  she  con- 
doled with  the  offended  father. 

"My  friend,"  she  said,  tenderly  taking  his  hand  before 
she  retired,  "I  know  how  deeply  you  must  be  grieved.  I 
know  what  your  disappointment  must  be.  I  do  not  beg  of 
you  to  forgive  him  now.  You  cannot  doubt  his  love  for 
this  young  person,  and  according  to  his  light,  has  he  not 
behaved  honourably,  and  as  you  would  have  wished,  rather 
than  bring  her  to  shame?  You  will  think  of  that.  It 
has  been  an  accident — a  misfortune — a  terrible  misfor- 
tune" .  .  . 

"The  God  of  this  world  is  in  the  machine — not  out  of 
it,"  Sir  Austin  interrupted  her,  and  pressed  her  hand  to 
get  the  good-night  over. 

At  any  other  time  her  mind  would  have  been  arrested  to 
admire  the  phrase ;  now  it  seemed  perverse,  vain,  false,  and 
she  was  tempted  to  turn  the  meaning  that  was  in  it  against 
himself,  much  as  she  pitied  him. 

"You  know,  Emmeline,"  he  added,  "I  believe  very  little 
in  the  fortune,  or  misfortune,  to  which  men  attribute 
their  successes  and  reverses-  They  are  useful  impersona- 
tions to  novelists;  but  my  opinion  is  sufficiently  high  of 
flesh  and  blood  to  believe  that  we  make  our  own  history 
without  intervention.  Accidents? — Terrible  misfortunes? 
— What  are  they? — Good-night." 

"Good-night,"  she  said,  looking  sad  and  troubled. 
"When  I  said,  'misfortune,'  I  meant,  of  course,  that  he  is 
to  blame,  but — shall  I  leave  you  his  letter  to  me?" 

"I  think  I  have  enough  to  meditate  upon,"  he  replied, 
coldly  bowing. 

"God  bless  you,"  she  whispered.  "And — may  I  say  it? 
do  not  shut  your  heart." 

He  assured  her  that  he  hoped  not  to  do  so,  and  the  mo- 
ment she  was  gone  he  set  about  shutting  it  as  tight  as 
he  could. 

If,  instead  of  saying,  Base  no  system  on  a  human  being, 
he  had  said,  Never  experimentalize  with  one,  he  would 
have  been  nearer  the  truth  of  his  own  case.  He  had 
experimented  on  humanity  in  the  person  of  the  son  he 
loved  as  his  life,  and  at  once,  when  the  experiment  ap- 


282      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

geared  to  have  failed,  all  humanity's  failings  fell  on  the 
.shi>  id  tiers  of  his  son.      Richard's   parting   laugh    in   the 

train — it  was  explicable  now:  it  sounded  in  his  ears  like 
the  mockery  of  this  base  nature  of  ours  at  every  en- 
deavor to  exalt  and  chasten  it.  The  young  man  had 
plotted  this.  From  step  to  step  Sir  Austin  traced  the 
plot.  The  curious  mask  he  had  worn  since  his  illness; 
the  selection  of  his  incapable  uncle  Hippias  for  a  com- 
panion in  preference  to  Adrian;  it  was  an  evident,  well- 
perfected  plot.  That  hideous  laugh  would  not  be  silenced. 
Base,  like  the  rest,  treacherous,  a  creature  of  passions 
using  his  abilities  solely  to  gratify  them — never  surely 
had  humanity  such  chances  as  in  him!  A  Manichacan 
tendency,  from  which  the  sententious  eulogist  of  nature 
had  been  struggling  for  years  (and  which  was  partly  at 
the  bottom  of  the  System),  now  began  to  cloud  and  usurp 
dominion  of  his  mind.  As  he  sat  alone  in  the  forlorn 
deachhush  of  his  library,  he  saw  the  devil. 

How  are  we  to  know  when  we  are  at  the  head  and  foun- 
tain of  the  fates  of  them  wo  love? 

There  by  the  springs  of  Richard's  future,  his  father  sat: 
and  the  devil  said  to  him:  "Only  be  quiet:  do  nothing: 
resolutely  do  nothing:  your  object  now  is  to  keep  a  brave 
face  to  the  world,  so  that  all  may  know  you  superior  to 
this  human  nature  that  has  deceived  you.  For  it  is  the 
shameless  deception,  not  the  marriage,  that  has  wounded 

you." 

"Ay!"  answered  the  baronet,  "the  shameless  deception, 
not  the  marriage:  wicked  and  ruinous  as  it  must  be;  a 
destroyer  of  my  tenderest  hopes!  my  dearest  schemes! 
Not  the  marriage — the  shameless  deception!"  and  he 
crumpled  up  his  son's  letter  to  him,  and  tossed  it  into 
the  tire. 

How  are  we  to  distinguish  the  dark  chief  of  the  Mani- 
chseans  when  he  talks  our  own  thoughts  to  us? 

Further  ho  whispered,  "And  your  System: — if  you 
would  be  brave  to  the  world,  have  courage  to  cast_  the 
dream  of  it  out  of  you:  relinquish  an  impossible  project; 
see  it  as  it  is — dead :  too  good  for  men !" 

"Ay!"  muttered  the  baronet:  "all  who  would  save  them 
perish  on  the  Cross!" 

And  so  he  sat  nursing  the  devil. 


NUESING  THE  DEVIL  283 

By  and  by  he  took  his  lamp,  and  put  on  the  old  cloak 
and  cap,  and  went  to  gaze  at  Eipton.  That  exhausted 
debauchee  and  youth  without  a  destiny  slept  a  dead  sleep. 
A  handkerchief  was  bound  about  his  forehead,  and  his 
helpless  sunken  chin  and  snoring  nose  projected  up  the 
pillow,  made  him  look  absurdly  piteous.  The  baronet  re- 
membered how  often  he  had  compared  his  boy  with  this 
one:  his  own  bright  boy!  And  where  was  the  difference 
between  them? 

"Mere  outward  gilding!"  said  his  familiar. 

"Yes,"  he  responded,  "I  daresay  this  one  never  posi- 
tively plotted  to  deceive  his  father:  he  followed  his  appe- 
tites unchecked,  and  is  internally  the  sounder  of  the 
two." 

Eipton,  with  his  sunken  chin  and  snoring  nose  under 
the  light  of  the  lamp,  stood  for  human  nature,  honest, 
however  abject. 

"Miss  Eandom,  I  fear  very  much,  is  a  necessary  estab- 
lishment!" whispered  the  monitor. 

"Does  the  evil  in  us  demand  its  natural  food,  or  it 
corrupts  the  whole?"  ejaculated  Sir  Austin.  "And  is  no 
angel  of  avail  till  that  is  drawn  off?  And  is  that  our  con- 
flict— to  see  whether  we  can  escape  the  contagion  of  its 
embrace,  and  come  uncorrupted  out  of  that?" 

"The  world  is  wise  in  its  way,"  said  the  voice. 

"Though  it  look  on  itself  through  Eort  wine?"  he  sug- 
gested, remembering  his  lawyer  Thompson. 

"Wise  in  not  seeking  to  be  too  wise,"  said  the  voice. 

"And  getting  intoxicated  on  its  drug  of  comfort!"' 

"Human  nature  is  weak." 

"And  Miss  Eandom  is  an  establishment,  and  Wild  Oats 
an  institution!" 

"It  always  has  been  so." 

"And  always  will  be?" 

"So  I  fear!  in  spite  of  your  very  noble  efforts." 

"And  leads — whither?     And  ends — where?" 

Eichard's  laugh,  taken  up  by  horrid  reverberations,  as 
it  were  through  the  lengths  of  the  Lower  Halls,  replied. 

This  colloquy  of  two  voices  in  a  brain  was  concluded  by 
Sir  Austin  asking  again  if  there  were  no  actual  difference 
between  the  flower  of  his  hopes  and  yonder  drunken  weed, 
and  receiving1  for  answer  that  there  was  a  decided  dissimi- 


284      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  EEVEREL 

larity  in  the  smell  of  the  couple;  becoming  cognizant  of 
which  he  retreated. 

Sir  Austin  did  not  battle  with  the  tempter.  He  took 
him  into  his  bosom  at  once,  as  if  he  had  been  ripe  for 
him,  and  received  his  suggestions  and  bowed  to  his  dic- 
tates. Because  he  suffered,  and  decreed  that  he  would 
suffer  silently,  and  be  the  only  sufferer,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  was  great-minded  in  his  calamity.  He  had  stood 
against  the  world.  The  world  had  beaten  him.  What 
then?  He  must  shut  his  heart  and  mask  his  face;  that 
was  all.  To  be  far  in  advance  of  the  mass,  is  as  fruitless 
to  mankind,  he  reflected,  as  straggling  in  the  rear.  For 
how  do  we  know  that  they  move  behind  us  at  all,  or  move 
in  our  track  %  What  we  win  for  them  is  lost;  and  where 
we  are  overthrown  we  lie! 

It  was  thus  that  a  fine  mind  and  a  fine  heart  at  the 
bounds  of  a  nature  not  great,  chose  to  colour  his  retro- 
gression and  countenance  his  shortcoming;  and  it  was 
thus  that  he  set  about  ruining  the  work  he  had  done.  He 
might  well  say,  as  he  once  did,  that  there  are  hours  when 
the  clearest  soul  becomes  a  cunning  fox.  For  a  grief  that 
was  private  and  peculiar,  he  unhesitatingly  cast  the  blame 
upon  humanity;  just  as  he  had  accused  it  in  the  period  of 
what  he  termed  his  own  ordeal.  How  had  he  borne  that? 
By  masking  his  face.  And  he  prepared  the  ordeal  for  his 
son  by  doing  the  same.  This  was  by  no  means  his  idea 
of  a  man's  duty  in  tribulation,  about  which  he  could  be 
strenuously  eloquent.  But  it  was  his  instinct  so  to  act, 
and  in  times  of  trial  great  natures  alone  are  not  at  the 
mercy  of  their  instincts.  Moreover  it  would  cost  him 
pain  to  mask  his  face;  pain  worse  than  that  he  endured 
when  there  still  remained  an  object  for  him  to  open  his 
heart  to  in  proportion;  and  he  always  reposed  upon  the 
Spartan  comfort  of  bearing  pain  and  being  passive.  "Do 
nothing,"  said  the  devil  he  nursed;  which  meant  in  his 
case,  "Take  me  into  you  and  don't  cast  me  out."  Ex- 
cellent and  sane  is  the  outburst  of  wrath  to  men,  when 
it  stops  short  of  slaughter.  For  who  that  locks  it  up  to 
eat  in  solitary,  can  say  that  it  is  consumed?  Sir  Austin 
had  as  weak  a  digestion  for  wrath,  as  poor  Hippias  for  a 
green  duckling.  Instead  of  eating  it,  it  ate  him.  The 
wild  beast  in  him  was  not  the  less  deadly  because  it  did 


NURSING   THE  DEVIL  285 

not  roar,  and  the  devil  in  him  not  the  less  active  because 
he  resolved  to  do  nothing. 

He  sat  at  the  springs  of  Richard's  future,  in  the  forlorn 
dead-hush  of  his  library  there,  hearing  the  cinders  click  in 
the  extinguished  fire,  and  that  humming  stillness  in  which 
one  may  fancy  one  hears  the  midnight  Fates  busily  stir- 
ring their  embryos.  The  lamp  glowed  mildly  on  the  bust 
of  Chatham. 

Toward  morning  a  gentle  knock  fell  at  his  door.  Lady 
Blandish  glided  in.  With  hasty  step  she  came  straight  to 
him,  and  took  both  his  hands. 

"My  friend,"  she  said,  speaking  tearfully,  and  trem- 
bling, "I  feared  I  should  find  you  here.  I  could  not  sleep. 
How  is  it  with  you  ?" 

"Well !  Emmeline,  well !"  he  replied,  torturing  his  brows 
to  fix  the  mask. 

He  wished  it  had  been  Adrian  who  had  come  to  him. 
He  had  an  extraordinary  longing  for  Adrian's  society. 
He  knew  that  the  wise  youth  would  divine  how  to  treat 
him,  and  he  mentally  confessed  to  just  enough  weakness 
to  demand  a  certain  kind  of  management.  Besides, 
Adrian,  he  had  not  a  doubt,  would  accept  him  entirely 
as  he  seemed,  and  not  pester  him  in  any  way  by  trying  to 
unlock  his  heart;  whereas  a  woman,  he  feared,  would  be 
waxing  too  womanly,  and  swelling  from  tears  and  suppli- 
cations to  a  scene,  of  all  things  abhorred  by  him  the  most. 
So  he  rapped  the  floor  with  his  foot,  and  gave  the  lady 
no  very  welcome  face  when  he  said  it  was  well  with  him. 

She  sat  down  by  his  side,  still  holding  one  hand  firmly, 
and  softly  detaining  the  other. 

"Oh,  my  friend!  may  I  believe  you?  May  I  speak  to 
you?"  She  leaned  close  to  him.  "You  know  my  heart. 
I  have  no  better  ambition  than  to  be  your  friend.  Surely 
I  divide  your  grief,  and' may  I  not  claim  your  confidence? 
Who  has  wept  more  over  your  great  and  dreadful  sorrows  ? 
I  would  not  have  come  to  you,  but  I  do  believe  that  sorrow 
shared  relieves  the  burden,  and  it  is  now  that  you  may 
feel  a  woman's  aid,  and  something  of  what  a  woman 
could  be  to  you."   .    .    . 

"Be  assured,"  he  gravely  said,  "I  thank  you,  Emmeline, 
for  your  intentions." 

"No,  no!  not  for  my  intentions!     And  do  not  thank 


2S6      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

me.  Think  of  him  .  .  .  think  of  your  dear  hoy.  .  .  . 
Our  Richard,  as  we  have  called  him. — Ohl  do  not  think 
it  a  foolish  superstition  of  mine,  but  I  have  had  a  thought 
this  night  that  has  kept  me  in  torment  till  I  rose  to 
speak  to  you.  .  .  .  Tell  me  first  you  have  forgiven 
him." 

"A  father  bears  no  malice  to  his  son,  Emmeline." 

"Your  heart  has  forgiven  him?" 

"My  heart  has  taken  what  he  gave." 

"And  quite  forgiven  him?" 

"You  will  hear  no  complaints  of  mine." 

The  lady  paused  despondingly,  and  looked  at  him  in 
a  wistful  manner,  saying  with  a  sigh,  "Yes!  I  know  how 
noble  you  arc  and  different  from  others!" 

He  drew  one  of  his  hands  from  her  relaxed  hold. 

"You  ought  to  be  in  bed,  Emmeline." 

"I  cannot  sleep." 

"Go,  and  talk  to  me  another  time." 

''No,  it  must  be  now.  You  have  helped  me  when  I  strug- 
gled to  rise  into  a  clearer  world,  and  I  think,  humble  as  I 
am,  I  can  help  you  now.  I  have  had  a  thought  this  night 
that  if  you  do  not  pray  for  him  and  bless  him  ...  it  will 
end  miserably.     My  friend,  have  you  done  so?" 

He  was  stung  and  offended,  and  could  hardly  help  show- 
ing it  in  spite  of  his  mask. 

"Have  you  done  so,  Austin  ?" 

"This  is  assuredly  a  new  way  of  committing  fathers  to 
the  follies  of  their  sons,  Emmeline!" 

"No,  not  that.  But  will  you  pray  for  your  boy,  and  bless 
him,  before  the  day  comes?" 

He  restrained  himself  to  pronounce  his  words  calmly: — 
"And  I  must  do  this,  or  it  will  end  in  misery?  How  else 
can  it  end?  Can  I  save  him  from  the  seed  he  has  sown? 
Consider,  Emmeline,  what  you  say.  He  has  repeated  his 
cousin's  sin.    You  see  the  end  of  that."  .   .    . 

"Oh,  so  different!  This  young  person  is  not,  is  not  of 
the  class  poor  Austin  Wentworth  allied  himself  to.  In- 
deed it  is  different.  And  he — be  just  and  admit  his  noble- 
ness. I  fancied  you  did.  This  young  person  has  great 
beauty,  she  has  the  elements  of  good  breeding,  she — in- 
deed I  think,  had  she  been  in  another  position,  you  would 
not  have  looked  upon  her  unfavourably." 


NURSING   THE  DEVIL  287 

"She  may  be  too  good  for  my  son !"  The  baronet  spoke 
with  sublime  bitterness. 

"No  woman  is  too  good  for  Richard,  and  you  know  it." 

"Pass  her." 

"Yes,  I  will  speak  only  of  him.  He  met  her  by  a  fatal 
accident.  We  thought  his  love  dead,  and  so  did  he  till  he 
saw  her  again.  He  met  her,  he  thought  we  were  plotting 
against  him,  he  thought  he  should  lose  her  for  ever,  and  in 
the  madness  of  an  hour  he  did  this."  .   .   . 

"My  Emmeline  pleads  bravely  for  clandestine  matches." 

"Ah!  do  not  trifle,  my  friend.  Say :  would  you  have  had 
him  act  as  young  men  in  his  position  generally  do  to 
young  women  beneath  them?" 

Sir  Austin  did  not  like  the  question.  It  probed  him 
very  severely. 

"You  mean,"  he  said,  "that  fathers  must  fold  their 
arms,  and  either  submit  to  infamous  marriages,  or  have 
these  creatures  ruined." 

"I  do  not  mean  that,"  exclaimed  the  lady,  striving  for 
what  she  did  mean,  and  how  to  express  it.  "I  mean  that 
...  he  loved  her.  Is  it  not  a  madness  at  his  age  ?  But 
what  I  chiefly  mean  is — save  him  from  the  consequences. 
No,  you  shall  not  withdraw  your  hand.  Think  of  his 
pride,  his  sensitiveness,  his  great  wild  nature — wild  when 
he  is  set  wrong:  think  how  intense  it  is,  set  upon  love; 
think,  my  friend,  do  not  forget  his  love  for  you." 

Sir  Austin  smiled  an  admirable  smile  of  pity. 

"That  I  should  save  him,  or  any  one,  from  consequences, 
is  asking  more  than  the  order  of  things  will  allow  to  you, 
Emmeline,  and  is  not  in  the  disposition  of  this  world.  I 
cannot.  Consequences  are  the  natural  offspring  of  acts. 
My  child,  you  are  talking  sentiment,  which  is  the  distrac- 
tion of  our  modern  age  in  everything — a  phantasmal 
vapour  distorting  the  image  of  the  life  we  live.  You  ask 
me  to  give  him  a  golden  age  in  spite  of  himself.  All  that 
could  be  done,  by  keeping  him  in  the  paths  of  virtue  and 
truth,  I  did.  He  is  become  a  man,  and  as  a  man  he  must 
reap  his  own  sowing." 

The  baffled  lady  sighed.  He  sat  so  rigid:  he  spoke  so 
securely,  as  if  wisdom  were  to  him  more  than  the  love  of 
his  son.  And  yet  he  did  love  his  son.  Feeling  sure  that 
he  loved  his  son  while  he  spoke  so  loftily,  she  reverenced 


288   THE  ORDEAL  OF  R 1 1  1 1  A  RD  FE VEREL 

him  still,  bafllotl  as  she  was,  and  sensible  that  she  had  been 
quibbled  with. 

"All  1  ask  of  you  is  to  open  your  heart  to  him,"  she 
said. 

He  kept  silent. 

"Call  him  a  man. — ho  is,  and  must  ever  be  the  child  of 
yonr  education,  my  friend." 

''You  would  console  me,  Emmeline,  with  the  prospect 
that,  if  he  ruins  himself,  he  spares  the  world  of  young 
women.     Yes,  that  is  something!" 

Closely  she  scanned  the  mask.  It  was  impenetrable, 
lie  could  meet,  her  eyes,  and  respond  to  the  pressure  of  her 
hand,  and  smile,  and  not  show  what  he  felt.  Nor  did  he 
deem  it  hypocritical  to  seek  to  maintain  his  elevation  in 
her  soft  soul,  by  simulating  supreme  philosophy  over 
ollended  love.  Nor  did  he  know  that  he  had  an  angel 
with  him  then :  a  blind  angel,  and  a  weak  one,  but  one 
who  struck  upon  his  chance. 

"Am  I  pardoned  for  coming  to  you?"  she  said,  after  a 
pause. 

"Surely  I  can  read  my  Emmeline's  intentions,"  he 
gently  replied. 

"Very  poor  ones.  I  feel  my  weakness.  I  cannot  utter 
half  I  have  been  thinking.     Oh,  if  I  could!" 

"You  speak  very  well,  Emmeline." 

"At  least,  I  am  pardoned  !" 

"Surely  so." 

"And  before  I  leave  you,  dear  friend,  shall  I  be  for- 
given?— may  I  beg  it? — will  you  bless  him?" 

He  was  again  silent. 

"Pray  for  him,  Austin!  pray  for  him  ere  the  night  is 
over." 

As  she  spoke  she  slid  down  to  his  feet  and  pressed  his 
hand  to  her  bosom. 

The  baronet  was  startled.  In  very  dread  of  the  soft  fit 
that  wooed  him,  he  pushed  back  his  chair,  and  rose,  and 
went  to  the  window. 

"It's  day  already !"  he  said  with  assumed  vivacity, 
throwing  open  the  shutters,  and  displaying  the  young 
light  on  the  lawn. 

Lady  Blandish  dried  her  tears  as  she  knelt,  and  then 
joined  him,   and   glanced   up  silently   at  Richard's  moon 


NUBSING  THE  DEVIL  289 

standing  in  wane  toward  the  West.  She  hoped  it  was  be- 
cause  of  her  having  been  premature  in  pleading  so  earn- 
estly, that  she  had  failed  to  move  him,  and  she  accused 
herself  more  than  the  baronet.  But  in  acting  as  she  had 
done,  she  had  treated  him.  as  no  common  man,  and  she 
was  compelled  to  perceive  that  his  heart  was  at  present 
hardly  superior  to  the  hearts  of  ordinary  men,  however 
composed  his  face  might  be,  and  apparently  serene  his 
wisdom.  From  that  moment  she  grew  critical  of  him,  and 
began  to  study  her  idol — a  process  dangerous  to  idols.  He, 
now  that  she  seemed  to  have  relinquished  the  painful 
subject,  drew  to  her,  and  as  one  who  wished  to  smooth  a 
foregone  roughness,  murmured:  "God's  rarest  blessing  is, 
after  all,  a  good  woman!  My  Emmeline  bears  her  sleep- 
less night  well.  She  does  not  shame  the  day."  He  gazed 
down  on  her  with  a  fondling  tenderness. 

"I  could  bear  many,  many!"  she  replied,  meeting  his 
eyes,  "and  you  would  see  me  look  better  and  better,  if  .  .  . 
if  only  ..."  but  she  had  no  encouragement  to  end  the 
sentence. 

Perhaps  he  wanted  some  mute  form  of  consolation ;  per- 
haps the  handsome  placid  features  of  the  dark-eyed  dame 
touched  him:  at  any  rate  their  Platonism  was  advanced 
by  his  putting  an  arm  about  her.  She  felt  the  arm  and 
talked  of  the  morning. 

Thus  proximate,  they  by  and  by  both  heard  something 
very  like  a  groan  behind  them,  and  looking  round,  beheld 
the  Saurian  eye.  Lady  Blandish  smiled,  but  the  baronet's 
discomposure  was  not  to  be  concealed.  By  a  strange  fatal- 
ity every  stage  of  their  innocent  loves  was  certain  to  have 
a  human  beholder. 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  I  beg  pardon,"  Benson  mumbled,  arrest- 
ing his  head  in  a  melancholy  pendulosity.  He  was 
ordered  out  of  the  room. 

"And  I  think  I  shall  follow  him,  and  try  to  get  forty 
winks,"  said  Lady  Blandish.  They  parted  with  a  quiet 
squeeze  of  hands. 

The  baronet  then  called  in  Benson. 

"Get  me  my  breakfast  as  soon  as  you  can,"  he  said, 
regardless  of  the  aspect  of  injured  conscience  Benson 
sombrely  presented  to  him.  "I  am  going  to  town  early. 
And,  Benson,"  he  added,  "you  will  also  go  to  town  this 


290      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

afternoon,  or  to-morrow,   if  it  suits  you,   and   lake  your 

book  with  you    to   -Mr.   Thompson.      You   will   not  return 

here.     A  provision  will  be  made  for  you.     You  can  go." 

The  heavy  butler  essayed  to  speak,  but  the  tremendous 

blow  and  the  baronet's  gesture  choked  him.  At  the  door 
be  made  another  effort  which  shook  the  rolls  of  his  loose 
skin  pitiably.  An  impatient  signal  sent,  him  out  dumb, — 
and  Raynham  was  quit  of  the  one  believer  in  the  Great 
Shaddock  dogma. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 
rnxgrrcsT  of  an  EPICURE 

It  was  the  month  of  July.  The  Solent  ran  up  green 
waves  before  a  full-blowing  South-wester.  Gay  little 
yachts  bounded  out  like  foam,  and  flashed  their  sails,  light 
as  sea-nymphs.  A  crown  of  deep  Summer  blue  topped  the 
flying  mountains  of  cloud. 

By  an  open  window  that  looked  on  the  brine  through 
nodding  roses,  our  young  bridal  pair  were  at  breakfast, 
regaling  worthily,  both  of  them.  Had  the  Scientific  Hu- 
manist observed  them,  he  could  not  have  contested  the 
fact,  that  as  a  couple  who  had  set  up  to  be  father  and 
mother  of  Britons,  they  were  doing  their  duty.  Files  of 
egg-cups  with  disintegrated  shells  bore  witness  to  it,  and 
they  were  still  at  work,  hardly  talking  from  rapidity  of 
exercise.  Both  wore  dressed  for  an  expedition.  She  had 
her  bonnet  on,  and  he  his  yachting-hat.  His  sleeves  were 
turned  over  at  tho  wrists,  and  her  gown  showed  its  lining 
on  her  lap.  At  times  a  chance  word  might  spring  a  laugh, 
but  eating  was  the  business  of  the  hour,  as  I  would  have 
you  to  know  it  always  will  be  where  Cupid  is  in  earnest. 
Tribute  flowed  in  to  them  from  the  subject  land.  Neg- 
lected lies  Love's  penny-whistle  on  which  they  played 
so  prettily  and  charmed  the  spheres  to  hear  them.  What 
do  they  care  for  the  spheres,  who  have  one  another? 
Come,  eggs!  come,  bread  and  butter!  come,  tea  with 
sugar  in  it  and  milk!  and  welcome,  the  jolly  hours.  That 
is  a  fair  interpretation  of  the  music  in  them  just  now. 


CONQUEST   OF  AN  EPICUKE  291 

Yonder  instrument  was  good  only  for  the  overture.  After 
all,  what  finer  aspiration  can  lovers  have,  than  to  be  free 
man  and  woman  in  the  heart  of  plenty  ?'  And  is  it  not  a 
glorious  level  to  have  attained?  Ah,  wretched  Scientific 
Humanist!  not  to  be  by  and  mark  the  admirable  sight  of 
these  young  creatures  feeding.  It  would  have  been  a  spell 
to  exorcise  the  Manichee,  methinks. 

The  mighty  performance  came  to  an  end,  and  then,  with 
a  flourish  of  his  table-napkin,  husband  stood  over  wife, 
who  met  him  on  the  confident  budding  of  her  mouth.  The 
poetry  of  mortals  is  their  daily  prose.  Is  it  not  a  glorious 
level  to  have  attained?  A  short,  quick-blooded  kiss,  ra- 
diant, fresh,  and  honest  as  Aurora,  and  then  Richard 
says  without  lack  of  cheer,  "No  letter  to-day,  my  Lucy!" 
whereat  her  sweet  eyes  dwell  on  him  a  little  seriously, 
but  he  cries,  "Never  mind!  he'll  be  coming  down  himself 
some  morning.  He  has  only  to  know  her,  and  all's  well! 
eh?"  and  so  saying  he  puts  a  hand  beneath  her  chin,  and 
seems  to  frame  her  fair  face  in  fancy,  she  smiling  up  to 
be  looked  at. 

"But  one  thing  I  do  want  to  ask  my  darling,"  says  Lucy, 
and  dropped  into  his  bosom  with  hands  of  petition.  "Take 
me  on  board  his  yacht  with  him  to-day — not  leave  me  with 
those  people!     Will  he?    I'm  a  good  sailor,  he  knows!" 

"The  best  afloat!"  laughs  Richard,  hugging  her,  "but, 
you  know,  you  darling  bit  of  a  sailor,  they  don't  allow 
more  than  a  certain  number  on  board  for  the  race,  and  if 
they  hear  you've  been  with  me,  there'll  be  cries  of  foul 
play!  Besides,  there's  Lady  Judith  to  talk  to  you  about 
Austin,  and  Lord  Mountfalcon's  compliments  for  you  to 
listen  to,  and  Mr.  Morton  to  take  care  of  you." 

Lucy's  eyes  fixed  sideways  an  instant. 

"I  hope  I  don't  frown  and  blush  as  I  did?"  she  said, 
screwing  her  pliable  brows  up  to  him  winningly,  and  he 
bent  his  cheek  against  hers,  and  murmured  something 
delicious. 

"And  we  shall  be  separated  for — how  many  hours?  one, 
two,  three  hours !"  she  pouted  to  his  flatteries. 

"And  then  I  shall  come  on  board  to  receive  my  bride's 
congratulations." 

"And  then  my  husband  will  talk  all  the  time  to  Lady 
Judith." 


292      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

''And  then  I  shall  see  my  wife  frowning  and  blushing  at 
Lord  Mount  falcon." 

"Am  I  so  foolish,  Richard?"  she  forgot  her  trifling  to 
ask  in  an  earnest  way,  and  had  another  Aurorean  kiss, 
just  brushing  the  dew  on  her  lips,  for  answer. 

After  hiding  a  month  in  shyest  shade,  the  pair  of  happy 
sinners  bad  wandered  forth  one  day  to  look  on  men  and 
marvel  at  them,  and  bad  chanced  to  meet  Mr.  Morton  of 
Peer  Hall,  Austin  Wentworth'a  friend,  and  Ralph's  uncle. 
Mr.  Morton  had  once  been  intimate  with  the  baronet,  but 
hail  given  him  up  for  many  years  as  impracticable  and 
hopeless,  for  which  reason  he  was  the  more  inclined  to  re- 
gard Richard's  misdemeanour  charitably,  and  to  lay  the 
faults  of  the  son  on  the  father;  and  thinking  society  to  be 
the  one  thing  requisite  to  the  young  man,  he  had  in- 
troduced him  to  the  people  he  knew  in  the  island ;  among 
others  to  the  Lady  Judith  Felle,  a  fair  young  dame,  who 
introduced  him  to  Lord  Mountfalcon,  a  puissant  noble- 
man; who  introduced  him  to  the  yachtsmen  beginning  to 
congregate;  so  that  in  a  few  weeks  he  found  himself  in 
the  centre  of  a  brilliant  company,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life  tasted  what  it  was  to  have  free  intercourse  with 
his  fellow-creatures  of  both  sexes.  The  son  of  a  System 
was,  therefore,  launched;  not  only  through  the  surf,  but 
in  deep  waters. 

Now  the  baronet  had  so  far  compromised  between  the 
recurrence  of  his  softer  feelings  and  the  suggestions  of  his 
new  familiar,  that  he  had  determined  to  act  toward  Rich- 
ard with  justness.  The  world  called  it  magnanimity,  and 
even  Lady  Blandish  had  some  thoughts  of  the  same  kind 
when  she  heard  that  he  had  decreed  to  Richard  a  hand- 
some allowance,  and  had  scouted  Mrs.  Doria's  proposal 
for  him  to  contest  the  legality  of  the  marriage;  but  Sir 
Austin  knew  well  he  was  simply  just  in  not  withholding 
money  from  a  youth  so  situated.  And  here  again  the 
world  deceived  him  by  embellishing  his  conduct.  For 
what  is  it  to  be  just  to  whom  we  love!  He  knew  it  was 
not  magnanimous,  but  the  cry  of  the  world  somehow 
fortified  him  in  the  conceit  that  in  dealing  perfect  justice 
to  his  son  he  was  doing  all  that  was  possible,  because  so 
much  more  than  common  fathers  would  have  done.  He 
had  shut  his  heart. 


CONQUEST   OF  AN  EPICURE  293 

Consequently  Richard  did  not  want  money.  What  he 
wanted  more,  and  did  not  get,  was  a  word  from  his 
father,  and  though  he  said  nothing  to  sadden  his  young 
bride,  she  felt  how  much  it  preyed  upon  him  to  be  at 
variance  with  the  man  whom,  now  that  he  had  offended 
him  and  gone  against  him,  he  would  have  fallen  on  his 
knees  to;  the  man  who  was  as  no  other  man  to  him.  She 
heard  him  of  nights  when  she  lay  by  his  side,  and  the 
darkness,  and  the  broken  mutterings,  of  those  nights 
clothed  the  figure  of  the  strange  stern  man  in  her  mind. 
Not  that  it  affected  the  appetites  of  the  pretty  pair.  We 
must  not  expect  that  of  Cupid  enthroned  and  in  condition; 
under  the  influence  of  sea-air,  too.  The  files  of  egg-cups 
laugh  at  such  an  idea.  Still  the  worm  did  gnaw  them. 
Judge,  then,  of  their  delight  when,  on  this  pleasant  morn- 
ing, as  they  were  issuing  from  the  garden  of  their  cottage 
to  go  down  to  the  sea,  they  caught  sight  of  Tom  Bakewell 
rushing  up  the  road  with  a  portmanteau  on  his  shoulders, 
and,  some  distance  behind  him,  discerned  Adrian. 

"It's  all  right!"  shouted  Richard,  and  ran  off  to  meet 
him,  and  never  left  his  hand  till  he  had  hauled  him  up, 
firing  questions  at  him  all  the  way,  to  where  Lucy  stood. 

"Lucy!  this  is  Adrian,  my  cousin." — "Isn't  he  an 
angel?"  his  eyes  seemed  to  add;  while  Lucy's  clearly 
answered,  "That  he  is !" 

The  full-bodied  angel  ceremoniously  bowed  to  her,  and 
acted  with  reserved  unction  the  benefactor  he  saw  in  their 
greetings.  "I  think  we  are  not  strangers,"  he  was  good 
enough  to  remark,  and  very  quickly  let  them  know  he  had 
not  breakfasted;  on  hearing  which  they  hurried  him  into 
the  house,  and  Lucy  put  herself  in  motion  to  have  him 
served. 

"Dear  old  Rady,"  said  Richard,  tugging  at  his  hand 
again,  "how  glad  I  am  you've  come!  I  don't  mind  telling 
you  we've  been  horridly  wretched." 

"Six,  seven,  eight,  nine  eggs,"  was  Adrian's  comment 
on  a  survey  of  the  breakfast-table. 

"Why  wouldn't  he  write?  Why  didn't  he  answer  one  of 
my  letters?  But  here  you  are,  so  I  don't  mind  now.  He 
wants  to  see  us,  does  he?  We'll  go  up  to-night.  I've  a 
match  on  at  eleven;  my  little  yacht — I've  called  her  the 
'Blandish' — against  Fred  Currie's  'Begum.'     I  shall  beat, 


294       THE  ORDEAL  <>i    RICHARD  KKVKRKL 

but  whether  I  do  or  not,  well  so  up  to-night.    What's  the 
news!    What  are  they  all  doing?" 

"My  dear  boy!"  Adrian  returned,  sitting  comfortably 
down,  "let  me  put  myself  a  little  more  on  an  equal  footing 
with  you  before  I  undertake  to  reply.  Half  that  number 
of  eggs  will  be  sufficient  for  an  unmarried  man,  and  then 
we'll  talk.  Tbey're  all  very  well,  as  well  as  1  can  recollect 
after  the  shaking  my  total  vacuity  has  had  this  morning. 
I  came  over  by  the  first  boat,  and  the  sea,  the  sea  has  made 
me  love  mother  earth,  and  desire  of  her  fruits." 

Richard  fretted  restlessly  opposite  his  cool  relative. 

"Adrian!  what  did  he  say  when  he  heard  of  it?  I  want 
to  know  exactly  what  words  he  said." 

"Well  says  the  sage,  my  son!  'Speech  is  the  small 
change  of  Silence.'     Pie  said  less  than   I  do." 

"That's  how  he  took  it!"  cried  Richard,  and  plunged  in 
meditation. 

Soon  the  table  was  cleared,  and  laid  out  afresh,  and 
Lucy  preceded  the  maid  bearing  eggs  on  the  tray,  and  sat 
down  unbonneted,  and  like  a  thorough-bred  housewife,  to 
pour  out  the  tea  for  him. 

"Now,  we'll  commence."  said  Adrian,  tapping  his  egg 
with  meditative  cheerfulness;  but  his  expression  soon 
changed  to  one  of  pain,  all  the  more  alarming  for  his 
benevolent  efforts  to  conceal  it.  Could  it  be  possible  the 
egg  was  bad?  oh,  horror!  Lucy  watched  him,  and  waited 
in  trepidation. 

"This  egg  has  boiled  three  minutes  and  three-quarters," 
he  observed,   ceasing  to  contemplate   it. 

"Dear,  dear!"  said  Lucy,  "I  boiled  them  myself  exactly 
that  time.  Richard  likes  them  so.  And  you  like  them 
hard,   Mr.   Ilarley?" 

"On  the  contrary,  I  like  them  soft.  Two  minutes  and  a 
half,  or  three-quarters  at  the  outside.  An  egg  should 
never  rashly  ver^e  upon  hardness — never.  Three  minutes 
is  the  excess  of  temerity."' 

"If  Richard  had  told  me!  If  I  had  only  known!"  the 
lovely  little  hostess  interjected  ruefully,  biting  her  lip. 

"We  mustn't  expect  him  to  pay  attention  to  such  mat- 
ters," said  Adrian,  trying  to  smile. 

"IlatiLT  it!  there  are  more  eggs  in  the  house,"  cried 
Richard,  and  pulled  savagely  at  the  bell. 


CONQUEST   OF   AN  EPICUKE  295 

Lucy  jumped  up,  saying,  "Oh,  yes!  I  will  go  and  boil 
some  exactly  the  time  you  like.  Pray  let  me  go,  Mr. 
Harley." 

Adrian  restrained  her  departure  with  a  motion  of  his 
hand.  "No,"  he  said,  "I  will  be  ruled  by  Richard's  tastes, 
and  heaven  grant  me  his  digestion !" 

Lucy  threw  a  sad  look  at  Richard,  who  stretched  on  a 
sofa,  and  left  the  burden  of  the  entertainment  entirely  to 
her.  The  eggs  were  a  melancholy  beginning,  but  her 
ardour  to  please  Adrian  would  not  be  damped,  and  she 
deeply  admired  his  resignation.  If  she  failed  in  pleasing 
this  glorious  herald  of  peace,  no  matter  by  what  small 
misadventure,  she  apprehended  calamity;  so  there  sat  this 
fair  dove  with  brows  at  work  above  her  serious  smiling 
blue  eyes,  covertly  studying  every  aspect  of  the  plump-faced 
epicure,  that  she  might  learn  to  propitiate  him.  "He  shall 
not  think  me  timid  and  stupid,"  thought  this  brave  girl, 
and  indeed  Adrian  was  astonished  to  find  that  she  could 
both  chat  and  be  useful,  as  well  as  look  ornamental.  When 
he  had  finished  one  egg,  behold,  two  fresh  ones  came  in, 
boiled  according  to  his  prescription.  She  had  quietly 
given  her  orders  to  the  maid,  and  he  had  them  without 
fuss.  Possibly  his  look  of  dismay  at  the  offending  eggs 
had  not  been  altogether  involuntary,  and  her  woman's 
instinct,  inexperienced  as  she  was,  may  have  told  her  that 
he  had  come  prepared  to  be  not  very  well  satisfied  with 
anything  in  Love's  cottage.  There  was  mental  faculty 
in  those  pliable  brows  to  see  through,  and  combat,  an 
unwitting  wise  youth. 

How  much  she  had  achieved  already  she  partly  divined 
when  Adrian  said:  "I  think  now  I'm  in  case  to  answer 
your  questions,  my  dear  boy — thanks  to  Mrs.  Richard," 
and  he  bowed  to  her  his  first  direct  acknowledgment  of 
her  position.     Lucy  thrilled  with  pleasure. 

"Ah!"  cried  Richard,  and  settled  easily  on  his  back. 

"To  begin,  the  Pilgrim  has  lost  his  Note-book,  and  has 
been  persuaded  to  offer  a  reward  which  shall  maintain  the 
happy  finder  thereof  in  an  asylum  for  life.  Benson — 
superlative  Benson — has  turned  his  shoulders  upon  Rayn- 
ham.  None  know  whither  he  has  departed.  It  is  believed 
that  the  sole  surviving  member  of  the  sect  of  the  Shad- 
dock-Dogmatists is  under  a  total  eclipse  of  Woman." 


/ 

29G      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"Benson  pone?"  Richard  exclaimed.  "What  a  tre- 
mendous time  it  seems  since  I  left  Raynham!" 

"So  it  is,  my  dear  boy.  The  honeymoon  is  Mahomet's 
minute;  or  say,  the  Persian  King's  water-pail  that  you 
read  of  in  the  story :  You  dip  your  head  in  it,  and  when 
you  draw  it  out,  you  discover  that  you  have  lived  a  life. 
To  resume:  your  uncle  Algernon  still  roams  in  pursuit 
of  the  lost  one — I  should  say,  hops.  Your  uncle  Hippias 
has  a  new  and  most  perplexing  symptom :  a  determination 
of  bride-cake  to  the  nose.  Ever  since  your  generous 
present  to  him,  though  he  declares  he  never  consumed  a 
morsel  of  it,  he  has  been  under  the  distressing  illusion  that 
his  nose  is  enormous,  and  I  assure  you  he  exhibits  quite 
a  maidenly  timidity  in  following  it — through  a  doorway, 
for  instance.  He  complains  of  its  terrible  weight.  I  have 
conceived  that  Benson  invisible  might  be  sitting  on  it. 
His  hand,  and  the  doctors,  are  in  hourly  consultation  with 
it,  but  I  fear  it  will  not  grow  smaller.  The  Pilgrim  has 
begotten  upon  it  a  new  Aphorism :  that  Size  is  a  matter 
of  opinion." 

"Poor  uncle  Hippy!"  said  Richard,  "I  wonder  he  doesn't 
believe  in  magic.  There's  nothing  supernatural  to  rival 
the  wonderful  sensations  he  does  believe  in.  Good  God! 
fancy  coming  to  that !" 

"I'm  sure  Pm  very  sorry,"  Lucy  protested,  "but  I  can't 
help  laughing." 

Charming  to  the  wise  youth  her  pretty  laughter 
sounded. 

"The  Pilgrim  has  your  notion,  Richard.  Whom  does 
he  not  forestall  ?  'Confirmed  dyspepsia  is  the  apparatus 
of  illusions,'  and  he  accuses  the  Ages  that  put  faith  in  sor- 
cery, of  universal  indigestion,  which  may  have  been  the 
case,  owing  to  their  infamous  cookery.  He  says  again,  if 
yen  remember,  that  our  own  Age  is  travelling  back  to 
darkness  and  ignorance  through  dyspepsia.  He  lays  the 
seat  of  wisdom  in  the  centre  of  our  system,  Mrs.  Richard : 
for  which  reason  you  will  understand  how  sensible  I  am 
of  the  vast  obligation  I  am  under  to  you  at  the  present 
moment,  for  your  especial  care  of  mine." 

Richard  looked  on  at  Lucy's  little  triumph,  attributing 
Adrian's  subjugation  to  her  beauty  and  sweetness.  She 
had  latterly  received  a  great  many  compliments  on  thajt 


CONQUEST   OF   AN  EPICUEE  297 

score,  which  she  did  not  care  to  hear,  and  Adrian's  hom- 
age to  a  practical  quality  was  far  pleasanter  to  the  young 
wife,  who  shrewdly  guessed  that  her  beauty  would  not 
help  her  much  in  the  struggle  she  had  now  to  maintain. 
Adrian  continuing  to  lecture  on  the  excelling  virtues  of 
wise  cookery,  a  thought  struck  her:  Where,  where  had  she 
tossed  Mrs.  Berry's  book? 

"So  that's  all  about  the  home-people?"  said  Richard. 

"All !"  replied  Adrian.  "Or  stay :  you  know  Clare's 
going  to  be  married?     Not?     Your  Aunt  Helen" 

"Oh,  bother  my  Aunt  Helen !  What  do  you  think  she  had 
the  impertinence  to  write — but  never  mind !  Is  it  to  Ralph  ?" 

"Your  Aunt  Helen,  I  was  going  to  say,  my  dear  boy,  is 
an  extraordinary  woman.  It  was  from  her  originally  that 
the  Pilgrim  first  learnt  to  call  the  female  the  practical 
animal.  He  studies  us  all,  you  know.  The  Pilgrim's 
Scrip  is  the  abstract  portraiture  of  his  surrounding  rela- 
tives.   Well,  your  Aunt  Helen" 

"Mrs.  Doria  Battledoria !"  laughed  Richard. 

" being  foiled  in  a  little  pet  scheme  of  her  own — 

call  it  a  System  if  you  like — of  some  ten  or  fifteen  years' 
standing,  with  regard  to  Miss  Clare!" 

"The  fair  Shuttlecockiana !" 

" instead  of  fretting  like  a  man,   and  questioning 

Providence,  and  turning  herself  and  everybody  else  inside 
out,  and  seeing  the  world  upside  down,  what  does  the  prac- 
tical animal  do  ?  She  wanted  to  marry  her  to  somebody 
she  couldn't  marry  her  to,  so  she  resolved  instantly  to 
marry  her  to  somebody  she  could  marry  her  to :  and  as 
old  gentlemen  enter  into  these  transactions  with  the  prac- 
tical animal  the  most  readily,  she  fixed  upon  an  old 
gentleman ;  an  unmarried  old  gentleman,  a  rich  old  gen- 
tleman, and  now  a  captive  old  gentleman.  The  ceremony 
takes  place  in  about  a  week  from  the  present  time.  No 
doubt  you  will  receive  your  invitation  in  a  day  or  two." 

"And  that  cold,  icy,  wretched  Clare  has  consented  to 
marry  an  old  man !"  groaned  Richard.  "I'll  put  a  stop  to 
that  when  I  go  to  town." 

Richard  got  up  and  strode  about  the  room.  Then  he 
bethought  him  it  was  time  to  go  on  board  and  make  prepa- 
rations. 

"I'm  off,"  he  said.     "Adrian,  you'll  take  her.     She  goes 


298       THE  ORDEAL  or   RICHARD   KKYEREL 

in  the  Empress,  Mount  falcon's  vessel.  lie  starts  us.  A 
little  Bchooner-yachl — such  a  beauty!  I'll  have  one  like 
her  some  day.    Good-bye,  darling  1"  he  whispered  to  Lucy, 

and  his  hand  and  eyes  lingered  on  her,  and  hers  on  him, 
seeking  to  make  up  for  the  priceless  kiss  they  were  de- 
barred from.  But  she  quickly  looked  away  from  him  as 
he  held  her: — Adrian  stood  silent:  his  brows  were  up, 
and  his  mouth  dubiously  contracted,    lie  spoke  at  last. 

"( io  on  the  water  S" 

"Yes.     It's  only  to  St.  Helen's.     Short  and  sharp." 

"Do  you  grudge  me  the  nourishment  my  poor  system 
has  just  received,  my  son?" 

"Oh,  bother  your  system!  Put  on  your  hat,  and  come 
along.     I'll  put  you  on  board  in  my  boat." 

"Richard!  I  have  already  paid  the  penalty  of  them  who 
are  condemned  to  come  to  an  island.  1  will  go  with  you 
to  the  edge  of  the  sea,  and  I  will  meet  you  there  when  you 
return,  and  take  up  the  Tale  of  the  Tritons:  but,  though  I 
forfeit  the  pleasure  of  Mrs.  Richard's  company,  I  refuse 
to  quit  the  land." 

"Yes,  oh.  Mr.  Harley!"  Lucy  broke' from  her  husband, 
"and  1  will  stay  with  you,  if  you  please.  I  don't  want  to 
go  among  those  people,  and  we  can  see  it  all  from  the 
shore.  Dearest!  1  don't  want  to  go.  You  don't  mind? 
Of  course,  I  will  go  if  you  wish,  but  I  would  so  much 
rather  stay;"  and  she  Lengthened  her  plea  in  her  attitude 
and  look  to  melt  the  discontent  she  saw  gathering. 

Adrian  protested  that  she  had  much  hotter  gu;  that  he 
could  amuse  himself  very  well  till  their  return,  and  so 
forth;  but  she  had  schemes  in  her  pretty  head,  and  held 
to  it  to  be  allowed  to  stay  in  spite  of  Lord  Mount  falcon's 
disappointment,  cited  by  Richard,  and  at  the  great 
risk  of  vexing  her  darling,  as  she  saw.  Richard  pished, 
and  glanced  contemptuously  at  Adrian.  He  gave  way 
ungraciously. 

"There,  do  as  you  like.  Get  your  things  ready  to  leave 
this  evening.  ATo,  I'm  not  angry." — Who  could  be?  he 
seemed  as  he  looked  up  from  her  modest  fondling  to  ask 
Adrian,  and  seized  the  indemnity  of  a  kiss  on  her  fore- 
head, which,  however,  did  not  immediately  disperse  the 
shade  of  annoyance  he  felt. 

"Good  heavens!"  he  exclaimed.     "Such  a  day  as  this, 


CONQUEST   OF   AN  EPICUEE  299 

and  a  fellow  refuses  to  come  on  the  water!  Well,  come 
along  to  the  edge  of  the  sea."  Adrian's  angelic  quality- 
had  quite  worn  off  to  him.  He  never  thought  of  devoting 
himself  to  make  the  most  of  the  material  there  was:  but 
somebody  else  did,  and  that  fair  somebody  succeeded  won- 
derfully in  a  few  short  hours.  She  induced  Adrian  to 
reflect  that  the  baronet  had  only  to  see  her,  and  the  family 
muddle  would  be  smoothed  at  once.  He  came  to  it  by 
degrees;  still  the  gradations  were  rapid.  Her  manner  he 
liked;  she  was  certainly  a  nice  picture:  best  of  all,  she 
was  sensible.  He  forgot  the  farmer's  niece  in  her,  she 
was  so  very  sensible.  She  appeared  really  to  understand 
that  it  was  a  woman's  duty  to  know  how  to  cook. 

But  the  difficulty  was,  by  what  means  the  baronet  could 
be  brought  to  consent  to  see  her.  He  had  not  yet  con- 
sented to  see  his  son,  and  Adrian,  spurred  by  Lady 
Blandish,  had  ventured  something  in  coming  down.  He 
was  not  inclined  to  venture  more.  The  small  debate  in 
his  mind  ended  by  his  throwing  the  burden  on  time. 
Time  would  bring  the  matter  about.  Christians  as  well 
as  Pagans  are  in  the  habit  of  phrasing  this  excuse  for 
folding  their  arms ;  "forgetful,"  says  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip, 
"that  the  devil's  imps  enter  into  no  such  armistice." 

As  she  loitered  along  the  shore  with  her  amusing  com- 
panion, Lucy  had  many  things  to  think  of.  There  was 
her  darling's  match.  The  yachts  were  started  by  pistol- 
shot  by  Lord  Mountfalcon  on  board  the  Empress,  and  her 
little  heart  beat  after  Kichard's  straining  sails.  Then 
there  was  the  strangeness  of  walking  with  a  relative  of 
Richard's,  one  who  had  lived  by  his  side  so  long.  And 
the  thought  that  perhaps  this  night  she  would  have  to 
appear  before  the  dreaded  father  of  her  husband. 

"O  Mr.  Harley !"  she  said,  "is  it  true — are  we  to  go  to- 
night?    And  me,"  she  faltered,  "will  he  see  me?" 

"Ah!  that  is  what  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about,"  said 
Adrian.  "I  made  some  reply  to  our  dear  boy  which  he  has 
slightly  misinterpreted.  Our  second  person  plural  is  liable 
to  misconstruction  by  an  ardent  mind.  I  said  'see  you,' 
and  he  supposed — now,  Mrs.  Richard,  I  am  sure  you  will 
understand  me.  Just  at  present  perhaps  it  would  be  advis- 
able— when  the  father  and  son  have  settled  their  accounts, 
the  daughter-in-law  can't  be  a  debtor."  .    .    . 


300      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  PEVEREL 

Lucy  tli  row  up  her  blue  eyes.  A  half -cowardly  delight 
at  the  chance  of  a  respite  from  the  awful  interview  made 
her  quickly  apprehensive. 

"O  Mr.  Harleyl  you  think  he  should  go  alone  first '." 

"Well,  that  is  my  notion.  But  the  fact  is,  he  is  such  an 
excellent  husband  that  I  fancy  it  will  require  more  than 
a  man's  power  of  persuasion  to  get  him  to  go." 

"But  I  will  persuade  him,  Mr.  Harlev." 

"Perhaps,  if  you  would   ..." 

"There  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  for  his  happiness," 
murmured  Lucy. 

The  wise  youth  pressed  her  hand  with  lymphatic  appro- 
bation. They  walked  on  till  the  yachts  had  rounded  the 
point. 

"Is  it  to-night,  Mr.  Harley?"  she  asked  with  some 
trouble  in  her  voice  now  that  her  darling  was  out  of 
sight. 

"I  don't  imagine  your  eloquence  even  will  get  him  to 
leave  you  to-night,"  Adrian  replied  gallantly.  "Besides,  I 
must  speak  for  myself.  To  achieve  the  passage  to  an 
island  is  enough  for  one  day.  No  necessity  exists  for  any 
hurry,  except  in  the  brain  of  that  impetuous  boy.  You 
must  correct  it,  Mrs.  Richard.  Men  are  made  to  be  man- 
aged, and  women  are  born  managers.  Now,  if  you  were 
to  let  him  know  that  you  don't  want  to  go  to-night,  and 
let  him  guess,  after  a  day  or  two,  that  you  would  very 
much  rather  .  .  .  you  might  affect  a  peculiar  repugnance. 
By  taking  it  on  yourself,  you  see,  this  wild  young  man 
will  not  require  such  frightful  efforts  of  persuasion.  Both 
his  father  and  he  are  exceedingly  delicate  subjects,  and 
his  father  unfortunately  is  not  in  a  position  to  be  managed 
directly.  It's  a  strange  office  to  propose  to  you,  but  it 
appears  to  devolve  upon  you  to  manage  the  father  through 
the  son.  Prodigal  having  made  his  peace,  you,  who  have 
done  all  the  work  from  a  distance,  naturally  come  into  the 
circle  of  the  paternal  smile,  knowing  it  due  to  you.  I 
see  no  other  way.  If  Richard  suspects  that  his  father 
objects  for  the  present  to  welcome  his  daughter-in-law, 
hostilities  will  be  continued,  the  breach  will  be  widened, 
bad  will  grow  to  worse,  and  I  see  no  end  to  it." 

Adrian  looked  in  her  face,  as  much  as  to  say:  Now  are 
you  capable  of  this  piece  of  heroism?     And  it  did  seem 


CONQUEST   OF  AN  EPICURE  301 

hard  to  her  that  she  should  have  to  tell  Richard  she  shrank 
from  any  trial.  But  the  proposition  chimed  in  with  her 
fears  and  her  wishes:  she  thought  the  wise  youth  very 
wise :  the  poor  child  was  not  insensible  to  his  flattery,  and 
the  subtler  flattery  of  making  herself  in  some  measure  a 
sacrifice  to  the  home  she  had  disturbed.  She  agreed  to 
simulate  as  Adrian  had  suggested. 

Victory  is  the  commonest  heritage  of  the  hero,  and 
when  Richard  came  on  shore  proclaiming  that  the  Blan- 
dish had  beaten  the  Begum  by  seven  minutes  and  three- 
quarters,  he  was  hastily  kissed  and  congratulated  by  his 
bride  with  her  fingers  among  the  leaves  of  Dr.  Kitchener, 
and  anxiously  questioned  about  wine. 

"Dearest !  Mr.  Harley  wants  to  stay  with  us  a  little,  and 
he  thinks  we  ought  not  to  go  immediately — that  is,  before 
he  has  had  some  letters,  and  I  feel  ...  I  would  so  much 
rather  ..." 

"Ah!  that's  it,  you  coward!"  said  Richard.  "Well,  then, 
to-morrow.     We  had  a  splendid  race.     Did  you  see  us  ?" 

"Oh,  yes!  I  saw  you  and  was  sure  my  darling  would 
win."  And  again  she  threw  on  him  the  cold  water  of  that 
solicitude  about  wine.  "Mr.  Harley  must  have  the  best, 
you  know,  and  we  never  drink  it,  and  I'm  so  silly,  I  don't 
know  good  wine,  and  if  you  would  send  Tom  where  he  can 
get  good  wine.     I  have»seen  to  the  dinner." 

"So  that's  why  you  didn't  come  to  meet  me?" 

"Pardon  me,  darling." 

"Well,  I  do,  but  Mountfalcon  doesn't,  and  Lady  Judith 
thinks  you  ought  to  have  been  there." 

"Ah,  but  my  heart  was  with  you!" 

Richard  put  his  hand  to  feel  for  the  little  heart:  her 
eyelids  softened,  and  she  ran  away. 

It  is  to  say  much  of  the  dinner  that  Adrian  found  no 
fault  with  it,  and  was  in  perfect  good  humour  at  the  con- 
clusion of  the  service.  He  did  not  abuse  the  wine  they 
were  able  to  procure  for  him,  which  was  also  much.  The 
coffee,  too,  had  the  honour  of  passing  without  comment. 
These  were  sound  first  steps  toward  the  conquest  of  an 
epicure,  and  as  yet  Cupid  did  not  grumble. 

After  coffee  they  strolled  out  to  see  the  sun  set  from 
Lady  Judith's  grounds.  The  wind  had  dropped.  The 
clouds  had  rolled  from  the  zenith,  and  ranged  in  amphi- 


302      THE  ORDEAL  OF  KICilAKD  ILYEREL 

theatre  with  distant  flushed  bodies  over  sea  and  land: 
Titanic  crimson  head  and  chest  rising  from  the  wave 
faced  Hyperion  falling.  There  hung  Briareus  with  deep- 
indented  trunk  and  ravined  brows,  stretching  all  his  hands 
up  to  unattainable  blue  summits.  North-west  the  range 
had  a  rich  white  glow,  as  if  shining  to  the  moon,  and 
westward,  streams  of  amber,  melting  into  upper  rose,  shot 
out  from  the  dipping  disk. 

"What  Sandoe  calls  the  passion-flower  of  heaven,"  said 
Richard  under  his  breath  to  Adrian,  who  was  serenely 
chanting  Greek  hexameters,  and  answered,  in  the  swing 
of  the  ca'sura,  "He  might  as  well  have  said  cauliflower." 

Lady  Judith,  with  a  black  lace  veil  tied  over  her  head. 
met  them  in  the  walk.  She  was  tall  and  dark;  dark- 
haired,  dark-eyed,  sweet  and  persuasive  in  her  accent  and 
manner.  "A  second  edition  of  the  Blandish,"  thinks 
Adrian.  She  welcomed  him  as  one  who  had  claims  on 
her  ail'ability.  She  kissed  Lucy  protectingly,  and  remark- 
ing on  the  wonders  of  the  evening,  appropriated  her  hus- 
band. Adrian  and  Lucy  found  themselves  walking  behind 
them. 

The  sun  was  under.  All  the  spaces  of  the  sky  were 
alight,  and  Richard's  fancy  flamed. 

"So  you're  not  intoxicated  with  your  immense  triumph 
this  morning?"  said  Lady  Judith. 

"Don't  laugh  at  me.  When  it's  over  I  feel  ashamed  of 
the  trouble  I've  taken.  Look  at  that  glory! — I'm  sure  you 
despise  me  for  it." 

"Was  I  not  there  to  applaud  you?  I  only  think  such 
energies  should  be  turned  into  some  definitely  useful  chan- 
nel.    But  you  must  not  go  into  the  Army." 

"What  else  can  I  do?" 

"You  an;  fit  for  so  much  that  is  better." 

"I  never  can  be  anything  like  Austin." 

"But  I  think  you  can   do  more." 

"Well,  I  thank  you  for  thinking  it,  Lady  Judith.  Some- 
thing 1  will  do.  A  man  must  deserve  to  live,  as  you 
say." 

"Sauces,"  Adrian  was  heard  to  articulate  distinctly  in 
the  rear,  "Sauces  are  the  top  tree  of  this  science.  A 
woman  who  has  mastered  sauces  sits  on  the  apex  of 
civilization." 


CONQUEST   OF   AN  EPICURE  303 

Briareus  reddened  duskily  seaward.  The  West  was  all  a 
burning  rose. 

"How  can  men  see  such  sights  as  those,  and  live  idle?" 
Eichard  resumed.  "I  feel  ashamed  of  asking  my  men  to 
work  for  me. — Or  I  feel  so  now." 

"Not  when  you're  racing  the  Begum,  I  think.  There's 
no  necessity  for  you  to  turn  democrat  like  Austin.  Do 
you  write  now?" 

"No.  What  is  writing  like  mine?  It  doesn't  deceive 
me.  I  know  it's  only  the  excuse  I'm  making  to  myself  for 
remaining  idle.     I  haven't  written  a  line  since — lately." 

"Because  you  are  so  happy." 

"No,  not  because  of  that.  Of  course  I'm  very  happy 
..."     He  did  not  finish. 

Vague,  shapeless  ambition  had  replaced  love  in  yonder 
skies.  No  Scientific  Humanist  was  by  to  study  the  nat- 
ural development,  and  guide  him.  This  lady  would  hardly 
be  deemed  a  very  proper  guide  to  the  undirected  energies 
of  the  youth,  yet  they  had  established  relations  of  that 
nature.  She  was  five  years  older  than  he,  and  a  woman, 
which  may  explain  her  serene  presumption. 

The  cloud-giants  had  broken  up:  a  brawny  shoulder 
smouldered  over  the  sea. 

"We'll  work  together  in  town,  at  all  events,"  said  Rich- 
ard. "Why  can't  we  go  about  together  at  night  and  find 
out  people  who  want  help?" 

Lady  Judith  smiled,  and  only  corrected  his  nonsense 
by  saying,  "I  think  we  mustn't  be  too  romantic.  You  will 
become  a  knight-errant,  I  suppose.  You  have  the  charac- 
teristics of  one." 

"Especially  at  breakfast,"  Adrian's  unnecessarily  em- 
phatic gastronomical  lessons  to  the  young  wife  here  came 
in. 

"You  must  be  our  champion,"  continued  Lady  Judith: 
"the  rescuer  and  succourer  of  distressed  dames  and  dam- 
sels.   We  want  one  badly." 

"You  do,"  said  Richard,  earnestly:  "from  what  I  hear: 
from  what  I  know!"  His  thoughts  flew  off  with  him  as 
knight-errant  hailed  shrilly  at  exceeding  critical  moments 
by  distressed  dames  and  damsels.  Images  of  airy  towers 
hung  around.  His  fancy  performed  miraculous  feats. 
The  towers  crumbled.     The  stars  grew  larger,  seemed  to 


304      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  EEVEREL 

throb  with  lustre.  Hi*  fancy  crumbled  with  the  towers 
of  the  air,  his  heart  gave  a  leap,  he  turned  to  Lucy. 

"My  darlingl  what  have  you  been  doing?"  And  as  if 
to  compensate  her  for  his  little  knight-errant  infidelity,  he 
pressed  very  tenderly  to  her. 

"We  have  been  engaged  in  a  charming  conversation  on 
domestic  cookery,"   interposed   Adrian. 

"Cookery!  such  an  evening  as  this?"  His  face  was  a 
handsome  likeness  of  Hippias  at  the  presentation  of  bride- 
cake. 

"Dearest!  you  know  it's  very  useful,"  Lucy  mirthfully 

pleaded. 

"Indeed  I  quite  agree  with  you,  child,"  said  Lady 
Judith,  "and  I  think  you  have  the  laugh  of  us.  1  cer- 
tainly will  learn  to  cook  some  day." 

'Woman's  mission,  in  so  many  words,"  ejaculated 
Adrian. 

"And  pray,  what  is  man's?" 

"To  taste  thereof,  and  pronounce  thereupon." 

"Let  us  give  it  up  to  them,"  said  Lady  Judith  to  Rich- 
ard. "You  and  I  never  will  make  so  delightful  and  beau- 
tifully balanced  a  world  of  it." 

Richard  appeared  to  have  grown  perfectly  willing  to 
give  everything  up  to  the  fair  face,  his  bridal  Hesper. 

Next  day  Lucy  had  to  act  the  coward  anew,  and.  as  she 
did  so,  her  heart  sank  to  see  how  painfully  it  affected  him 
that  she  should  hesitate  to  go  with  him  to  his  father.  He 
was  patient,  gentle;  he  sat  down  by  her  side  to  appeal  to 
her  reason,  and  used  all  the  arguments  he  could  think  of 
to  persuade  her. 

"If  we  go  together  and  make  him  see  us  both :  if  he  sees 
he  has  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  in  you— rather  everything 
to  be  proud  of;  if  you  are  only  near  him,  you  will  not  have 
to  speak  a  word,  and  Em  certain — as  certain  as  that  I  live 
— that  in  a  week  we  shall  be  settled  happily  at  Rayn- 
hain.  I  know  my  father  so  well,  Lucy.  Nobody  knows 
him  but  I." 

Lucy  asked  whether  Mr.  Harley  did  not. 

"Adrian?  Not  a  bit.  Adrian  only  knows  a  part  of 
people,  Lucy;  and  not  the  best  part." 

Lucy  was  disposed  to  think  more  highly  of  the  object  of 
her  conquest. 


CONQUEST   OF   AN  EPICURE  305 

"Is  it  lie  that  has  been  frightening  you,  Lucy?" 

"No,  no,  Richard;  oh,  dear  no;"  she  cried,  and  looked 
at  him  more  tenderly  because  she  was  not  quite  truthful. 

"He  doesn't  know  my  father  at  all,"  said  Richard.  But 
Lucy  had  another  opinion  of  the  wise  youth,  and  secretly 
maintained  it.  She  could  not  be  won  to  imagine  the  bar- 
onet a  man  of  human  mould,  generous,  forgiving,  full  of 
passionate  love  at  heart,  as  Richard  tried  to  picture  him, 
and  thought  him,  now  that  he  beheld  him  again  through 
Adrian's  embassy.  To  her  he  was  that  awful  figure, 
shrouded  by  the  midnight.  "Why  are  you  so  harsh  ?"  she 
had  heard  Richard  cry  more  than  once.  She  was  sure 
that  Adrian  must  be  right. 

"Well,  I  tell  you  I  won't  go  without  you,"  said  Richard, 
and  Lucy  begged  for  a  little  more  time. 

Cupid  now  began  to  grumble,  and  with  cause.  Adrian 
positively  refused  to  go  on  the  water  unless  that  element 
were  smooth  as  a  plate.  The  South-west  still  joked  bois- 
terously at  any  comparison  of  the  sort;  the  days  were 
magnificent;  Richard  had  yachting  engagements;  and 
Lucy  always  petitioned  to  stay  to  keep  Adrian,  company, 
conceiving  it  her  duty  as  hostess.  Arguing  with  Adrian 
was  an  absurd  idea.  If  Richard  hinted  at  his  retaining 
Lucy,  the  wise  youth  would  remark:  "It's  a  wholesome 
interlude  to  your  extremely  Cupidinous  behaviour,  my 
dear  boy." 

Richard  asked  his  wife  what  they  could  possibly  find  to 
talk  about. 

"All  manner  of  things,"  said  Lucy;  "not  only  cookery. 
He  is  so  amusing,  though  he  does  make  fun  of  The 
Pilgrim's  Scrip,  and  I  think  he  ought  not.  And  then, 
do  you  know,  darling — you  won't  think  me  vain  ? — I  think 
he  is  beginning  to  like  me  a  little." 

Richard  laughed  at  the  humble  mind  of  his  Beauty. 

"Doesn't  everybody  like  you,  admire  you?  Doesn't 
Lord  Mountf  alcon,  and  Mr.  Morton,  and  Lady  Judith  ?" 

"But  he  is  one  of  your  family,  Richard." 

"And  they  all  will,  if  she  isn't  a  coward." 

"Ah,  no!"  she  sighs,  and  is  chidden. 

The  conquest  of  an  epicure,  or  any  young  wife's  con- 
quest beyond  her  husband,  however  loyally  devised  for 
their  mutual  happiness,  may  be  costly  to  her.     Richard 


306      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICH  AIM)   IT.YEREL 

in  his  hours  of  excitement  was  thrown  very  much  with 
Lady  Judith.  lie  consulted  her  regarding  what  he  termed 
Lucy's  cowardice.  Lady  -Judith  said:  "I  think  she's 
wrong,  but  you  must  learn  to  humour  little  women.' 

"Then  would  you  advise  me  to  go  up  alone?"  he  asked, 
with  a  cloudy  forehead. 

"What  else  can  you  do?  Be  reconciled  yourself  as 
quickly  as  you  can.  You  can't  drag  her  like  a  captive, 
you  know?" 

It  is  not  pleasant  for  a  young  husband,  fancying  his 
bride  the  peerless  flower  of  Creation,  to  learn  that  ho 
must  humour  a  little  woman  in  her.  It  was  revolting 
to  Richard. 

"What  I  fear,"  he  said,  "is,  that  my  father  will  make  it 
smooth  with  me,  and  not  acknowledge  her:  so  that  when- 
ever I  go  to  him,  I  shall  have  to  leave  her,  and  tit  for  tat — 
an  abominable  existence,  like  a  ball  on  a  billiard-table. 
I  won't  bear  that  ignominy.  And  this  I  know,  I  know! 
she  might  prevent  it  at  once,  if  she  would  only  be  brave, 
and  face  it.  You,  you,  Lady  Judith,  you  wouldn't  be 
a   coward?" 

"Where  my  old  lord  tells  me  to  go,  I  go,"  the  lady  coldly 
replied.  "There's  not  much  merit  in  that.  Pray,  don't 
cite  me.     Women  are  born  cowards,  you  know." 

"Rut  I  lovu  the  women  who  are  not  cowards." 

"The  little  thing — your  wife  has  not  refused  to  go?" 

"Xo — but  tears!     Who  can  stand  tears?" 

Lucy  had  come  to  drop  them.  Unaccustomed  to  have 
his  will  thwarted,  and  urgent  where  he  saw  the  thing  to 
do  so  clearly,  the  young  husband  had  spoken  strong 
words:  and  she,  who  knew  that  she  would  have  given  her 
life  by  inches  for  him;  who  knew  that  she  was  playing  a 
part  for  his  happiness,  and  hiding  for  his  sake  the  nature 
that  was  worthy  his  esteem;  the  poor  little  martyr  had 
been  weak  a  moment. 

She  had  Adrian's  support.  The  wise  youth  was  very 
comfortable.  lie  liked  the  air  of  the  Island,  and  he  liked 
being  petted.  "A  nice  little  woman!  a  very  nice  little 
woman!"  Tom  Bakewell  heard  him  murmur  to  himself 
according  to  a  habit  he  had;  and  his  air  of  rather  suc- 
culent patronage  as  he  walked  or  sat  beside  the  innocent 
Reauty,    with   his   head    thrown    back    and   a   smile   that 


CONQUEST   OF  AN  EPICURE  307 

seemed  always  to  be  in  secret  communion  with  his  marked 
abdominal  prominence,  showed  that  she  was  gaining  part 
of  what  she  played  for.  Wise  youths  who  buy  their  loves, 
are  not  unwilling,  when  opportunity  offers,  to  try  and 
obtain  the  commodity  for  nothing.  Examinations  of  her 
hand,  as  for  some  occult  purpose,  and  unctuous  pattings 
of  the  same,  were  not  infrequent.  Adrian  waxed  now 
and  then  Anacreontic  in  his  compliments.  Lucy  would 
say :  "That's  worse  than  Lord  Mountfalcon." 

"Better  English  than  the  noble  lord  deigns  to  employ — 
allow  that?"  quoth  Adrian. 

"He  is  very  kind,"  said  Lucy. 

"To  all  save  to  our  noble  vernacular,"  added  Adrian. 
"He  seems  to  scent  a  rival  to  his  dignity  there." 

It  may  be  that  Adrian  scented  a  rival  to  his  lymphatic 
emotions. 

"We  are  at  our  ease  here  in  excellent  society,"  he  wrote 
to  Lady  Blandish.  "I  am  bound  to  confess  that  the  Huron 
has  a  happy  fortune,  or  a  superlative  instinct.  Blindfold 
he  has  seized  upon  a  suitable  mate.  She  can  look  at  a 
lord,  and  cook  for  an  epicure.  Besides  Dr.  Kitchener, 
she  reads  and  comments  on  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip  The 
Love'  chapter,  of  course,  takes  her  fancy.  That  picture 
of  Woman,  'Drawn  by  Reverence  and  coloured  by  Love,' 
she  thinks  beautiful,  and  repeats  it,  tossing  up  pretty 
eyes.  Also  the  lover's  petition:  'Give  me  purity  to  be 
worthy  the  good  in  her,  and  grant  Iter  patience  to  reach 
the  good  in  me.'  'Tis  quite  taking  to  hear  her  lisp  it.  Be 
sure  that  I  am  repeating  the  petition!  I  make  her  read 
me  her  choice  passages.     She  has  not  a  bad  voice. 

"The  Lady  Judith  I  spoke  of  is  Austin's  Miss  Menteith, 
married  to  the  incapable  old  Lord  Felle,  or  Fellow,  as  the 
wits  here  call  him.  Lord  Mountfalcon  is  his  cousin,  and 
her — what  ?  She  has  been  trying  to  find  out,  but  they  have 
both  got  over  their  perplexity,  and  act  respectively  the  bad 
man  reproved  and  the  chaste  counsellor;  a  position  in 
which  our  young  couple  found  them,  and  haply  diverted 
its  perils.  They  had  quite  taken  them  in  hand.  Lady 
Judith  undertakes  to  cure  the  fair  Papist  of  a  pretty, 
modest  trick  of  frowning  and  blushing  when  addressed, 
and  his  lordship  directs  the  exuberant  energies  of  the 
original  man.     'Tis  thus  we  fulfil  our  destinies,  and  are 


30S      THE  OBDEAI  OF  IMCIIARD  FEVERE] 

content.  Sometimes  they  change  pupils;  my  lord  educates 
the  little  dame,  and  my  lady  the  hope  of  Raynham.  Joy 
and  blessings  unto  all!  as  the  German  poet  sings.  Lady 
Judith  accepted  the  hand  of  her  decrepit  lord  that  she 
might  be  of  potent  service  to  her  fellow-creatures.  Austin, 
you  know,  had  great  hopes  of  her. 

"I  have  for  the  first  time  in  my  career  a  field  of  lords 
to  study.  I  think  it  is  not  without  meaning  that  I  am 
introduced  to  it  by  a  yeoman's  niece.  The  language  of 
the  two  social  extremes  is  similar.  I  find  it  to  consist 
in  an  instinctively  lavish  use  of  vowels  and  adjectives. 
My  lord  and  Farmer  Blaize  speak  the  same  tongue,  only 
my  lord's  has  lost  its  backbone,  and  is  limp,  though  fluent. 
Their  pursuits  are  identical ;  but  that  one  has  money,  or, 
as  the  Pilgrim  terms  it,  vantage,  and  the  other  has  not. 
Their  ideas  seem  to  have  a  special  relationship  in  the 
peculiarity  of  stopping  where  they  have  begun.  Young 
Tom  Blaize  with  vantage  would  be  Lord  Mountfalcon. 
Even  in  the  character  of  their  parasites  I  see  a  resem- 
blance, though  I  am  bound  to  confess  that  the  Hon.  Peter 
Brayder,  who  is  my  lord's  parasite,  is  by  no  means  noxious. 

"This  sounds  dreadfully  democratic.  Pray,  don't  be 
alarmed.  The  discovery  of  the  affinity  between  the  two 
extremes  of  the  Royal  British  Oak  has  made  me  thrice 
conservative.  I  see  now  that  the  national  love  of  a  lord 
is  less  subservience)  than  a  form  of  self-love;  putting  a  gold- 
lace  hat  on  one's  image,  as  it  were,  to  bow  to  it.  I  see, 
too,  the  admirable  wisdom  of  our  system: — could  there  be 
a  finer  balance  of  power  than  in  a  community  where  men 
intellectually  nil,  have  lawful  vantage  and  a  gold-lace  hat 
on?  How  soothing  it  is  to  intellect — that  noble  rebel,  as 
the  Pilgrim  has  it — to  stand,  and  bow,  and  know  itself 
superior!  This  exquisite  compensation  maintains  the 
balance:  whereas  that  period  anticipated  by  the  PlLORIM, 
when  science  shall  have  produced  an  intellectual  aristoc- 
racy, is  indeed  horrible  to  contemplate.  For  what  despot- 
ism is  so  black  as  one  the  mind  cannot  challenge?  'Twill 
be  an  iron  Age.  Wherefore,  madam,  I  cry,  and  shall 
continue  to  cry,  'Vive  Lord  Mountfalcon!  long  may  he 
sip  his  Burgundy!  long  may  the  bacon-fed  carry  him  on 
their  shoulders!' 

"Mr.  Morton  (who  does  me  the  honour  to  call  me  Young 


CONQUEST   OF  AN  EPICURE  309 

Mephisto,  and  Socrates  missed)  leaves  to-morrow  to  get 
Master  Ralph  out  of  a  scrape.  Our  Richard  has  just  been 
elected  member  of  a  Club  for  the  promotion  of  nausea.  Is 
he  happy?  you  ask.  As  much  so  as  one  who  has  had  the 
misfortune  to  obtain  what  he  wanted  can  be.  Speed  is 
his  passion.  He  races  from  point  to  point.  In  emulation 
of  Leander  and  Don  Juan,  he  swam,  I  hear,  to  the  op- 
posite shores  the  other  day,  or  some  world-shaking  feat 
of  the  sort:  himself  the  Hero  whom  he  went  to  meet:  or, 
as  they  who  pun  say,  his  Hero  was  a  Bet.  A  pretty  little 
domestic  episode  occurred  this  morning.  He  finds  her 
abstracted  in  the  fire  of  his  caresses :  she  turns  shy  and 
seeks  solitude :  green  jealousy  takes  hold  of  him :  he  lies 
in  wait,  and  discovers  her  with  his  new  rival — a  veteran 
edition  of  the  culinary  Doctor!  Blind  to  the  Doctor's 
great  national  services,  deaf  to  her  wild  music,  he  grasps 
the  intruder,  dismembers  him,  and  performs  upon  him  the 
treatment  he  has  recommended  for  dressed  cucumber. 
Tears  and  shrieks  accompany  the  descent  of  the  gastro- 
nome. Down  she  rushes  to  secure  the  cherished  fragments: 
he  follows:  they  find  him.  true  to  his  character,  alighted 
and  straggling  over  a  bed  of  blooming  flowers.  Yet  ere 
a  fairer  flower  can  gather  him,  a  heel  black  as  Pluto 
stamps  him  into  earth,  flowers  and  all : — happy  burial ! 
Pathetic  tribute  to  his  merit  is  watering  his  grave,  when 
by  saunters  my  Lord  Mountfalcon.  'What's  the  mattah?' 
says  his  lordship,  soothing  his  moustache.  They  break 
apart,  and  'tis  left  to  me  to  explain  from  the  window.  My 
lord  looks  shocked,  Richard  is  angry  with  her  for  having 
to  be  ashamed  of  himself,  Beauty  dries  her  eyes,  and  after 
a  pause  of  general  foolishness,  the  business  of  life  is  re- 
sumed. I  may  add  that  the  Doctor  has  just  been  dug  up, 
and  we  are  busy,  in  the  enemy's  absence,  renewing  old 
iEson  with  enchanted  threads.  By  the  way,  a  Papist 
priest  has  blest  them." 

A  month  had  passed  when  Adrian  wrote  this  letter.  He 
was  very  comfortable;  so  of  course  he  thought  Time  was 
doing  his  duty.  Not  a  word  did  he  say  of  Richard's  re- 
turn, and  for  some  reason  or  other  neither  Richard  nor 
Lucy  spoke  of  it  now. 

Lady  Blandish  wrote  back:  "His  father  thinks  he  has 
refused  to  come  to  him.     By  your  utter  silence  on  the 


310       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FKVKREL 

subject,  I  fear  that  it  must  bo  so.  Make  him  come.  Bring 
him  by  force.  Insist  on  his  coming.  Is  he  mad?  He 
must  come  at  once." 

To  this  Adrian  replied,  after  a  contemplative  comfort- 
able lapse  of  a  day  or  two,  which  might  be  laid  to  his 
efforts  to  adopt  the  lady'a  advice,  "The  point  is  that  the 
half  man  declines  to  come  without  the  whole  man.  The 
terrible  question  of  sex  is  our  obstruction." 

Lady  Blandish  was  in  despair.  She  had  no  positive 
assurance  that  the  baronet  would  see  his  son ;  the  mask 
put  them  all  in  the  dark;  but  she  thought  she  saw  in  Sir 
Austin  irritation  that  the  offender,  at  least  when  the 
opening  to  come  and  make  his  peace  seemed  to  be  before 
him,  should  let  days  and  weeks  go  by.  She  saw  through 
the  mask  sufficiently  not  to  have  any  hope  of  his  consent- 
ing to  receive  the  couple  at  present ;  she  was  sure  that 
his  equanimity  was  fictitious;  but  she  pierced  no  farther, 
or  she  might  have  started  and  asked  herself,  Is  this  the 
heart  of  a  woman? 

The  lady  at  last  wrote  to  Richard.  She  said:  "Come 
instantly,  and  come  alone."  Then  Richard,  against  his 
judgment,  gave  way.  "My  father  is  not  the  man  I  thought 
him!"  he  exclaimed  sadly,  and  Lucy  felt  his  eyes  saying 
to  her :  "And  you,  too,  are  not  the  woman  I  thought  you." 
Nothing  could  the  poor  little  heart  reply  but  strain  to  his 
bosom  and  sleeplessly  pray  in  his  arms  all  the  night. 


CHAPTER   XXXV 
CLARE'S  MARRIAGE 

Throe  weeks  after  Richard  arrived  in  town,  his  cousin 
Clare  was  married,  under  the  blessings  of  her  energetic 
mother,  and  with  the  approbation  of  her  kinsfolk,  to  the 
husband  that  had  been  expeditiously  chosen  for  her.  The 
gentleman,  though  something  more  than  twice  the  age  of 
his  bride,  had  no  idea  of  approaching  senility  for  many 
long  connubial  years  to  come.  Backed  by  his  tailor  and 
his  hairdresser,  he  presented  no  such  bad  figure  at  the 
altar,  and  none  would  have  thought  that  he  was  an  ancient 


CLARE'S  MARRIAGE  311 

admirer  of  his  bride's  mama,  as  certainly  none  knew  he 
had  lately  proposed  for  Mrs.  Doria  before  there  was  any 
question  of  her  daughter.  These  things  were  secrets;  and 
the  elastic  and  happy  appearance  of  Mr.  John  Todhunter 
did  not  betray  them  at  the  altar.  Perhaps  he  would  rather 
have  married  the  mother.  He  was  a  man  of  property, 
well  born,  tolerably  well  educated,  and  had,  when  Mrs. 
Doria  rejected  him  for  the  first  time,  the  reputation  of 
being  a  fool — which  a  wealthy  man  may  have  in  his 
youth ;  but  as  he  lived  on,  and  did  not  squander  his  money 
— amassed  it,  on  the  contrary,  and  did  not  seek  to  go  into 
Parliament,  and  did  other  negative  wise  things,  the 
world's  opinion,  as  usual,  veered  completely  round,  and 
John  Todhunter  was  esteemed  a  shrewd,  sensible  man — 
only  not  brilliant;  that  he  was  brilliant  could  not  be  said 
of  him.  In  fact,  the  man  could  hardly  talk,  and  it  was 
a  fortunate  provision  that  no  impromptu  deliveries  were 
required  of  him  in  the  marriage-service. 

Mrs.  Doria  had  her  own  reasons  for  being  in  a  hurry. 
She  had  discovered  something  of  the  strange  impassive 
nature  of  her  child;  not  from  any  confession  of  Clare's, 
but  from  signs  a  mother  can  read  when  her  eyes  are  not 
resolutely  shut.  She  saw  with  alarm  and  anguish  that 
Clare  had  fallen  into  the  pit  she  had  been  digging  for 
her  so  laboriously.  In  vain  she  entreated  the  baronet  to 
break  the  disgraceful,  and,  as  she  said,  illegal  alliance 
his  son  had  contracted.  Sir  Austin  would  not  even  stop 
the  little  pension  to  poor  Berry.  "At  least  you  will  do 
that,  Austin,"  she  begged  pathetically.  "You  will  show 
your  sense  of  that  horrid  woman's  conduct  ?"  He  refused 
to  offer  up  any  victim  to  console  her.  Then  Mrs.  Doria 
told  him  her  thoughts, — and  when  an  outraged  energetic 
lady  is  finally  brought  to  exhibit  these  painfully  hoarded 
treasures,  she  does  not  use  half  words  as  a  medium.  His 
System,  and  his  conduct  generally  were  denounced  to 
him,  without  analysis.  She  let  him  understand  that  the 
world  laughed  at  him;  and  he  heard  this  from  her  at  a 
time  when  his  mask  was  still  soft  and  liable  to  be  acted 
on  by  his  nerves.  "You  are  weak,  Austin !  weak,  I  tell  you !" 
she  said,  and,  like  all  angry  and  self-interested  people, 
prophecy  came  easy  to  her.  In  her  heart  she  accused  him 
of  her  own  fault,  in  imputing  to  him  the  wreck  of  her 


312      THE  OKDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

project.  The  baronet  allowed  her  to  revel  in  the  proclama- 
tion of  a  dire  future,  and  quietly  counselled  her  to  keep 
apart  from  him,  which  his  sister  assured  him  she  would  do. 

But  to  bo  passive  in  calamity  is  the  province  of  no 
woman.  Mark  the  race  at  any  hour.  "What  revolution 
and  hubbub  does  not  that  little  instrument,  the  needle, 
avert  from  us!"  says  Tin:  Pii.ckim's  Scrip.  Alas,  that  in 
calamity  women  cannot  stitch!  Now  that  she  saw  Clare 
wanted  other  than  iron,  it  struck  her  she  must  have  a 
husband,  and  be  made  secure  as  a  woman  and  a  wife. 
This  seemed  the  thing  to  do:  and,  as  she  had  forced  the 
iron  down  Clare's  throat,  so  she  forced  the  husband,  and 
Clare  gulped  at  the  latter  as  she  had  at  the  former.  On 
the  very  day  that  Mrs.  Doria  had  this  new  track  shaped 
out  before  her,  John  Todhuntcr  called  at  the  Foreys'. 
"Old  John!"  sang  out  Mrs.  Doria,  "show  him  up  to  me. 
I  want  to  see  him  particularly."  He  sat  with  her  alone. 
He  was  a  man  multitudes  of  women  would  have  married — 
whom  will  they  not? — and  who  would  have  married  any 
presentable  woman :  but  women  do  want  asking,  and  John 
never  had  the  word.  The  rape  of  such  men  is  left  to  the 
practical  animal.  So  John  sat  alone  with  his  old  flame. 
He  had  become  resigned  to  her  perpetual  lamentation  and 
living  Suttee  for  his  defunct  rival.  But,  ha!  what  meant 
those  soft  glances  now — addressed  to  him?  His  tailor 
and  his  hairdresser  gave  youth  to  John,  but  they  had  not 
the  art  to  bestow  upon  him  distinction,  and  an  undis- 
tinguished man  what  woman  looks  at?  John  was  an  in- 
distinguishable man.  For  that  reason  he  was  dry  wood  to 
a  soft  glance. 

And  now  she  said:  "It  is  time  you  should  marry;  and 
you  are  the  man  to  be  the  guide  and  helper  of  a  young 
woman,  John.  You  are  well  preserved — younger  than 
most  of  the  young  men  of  our  day.  You  are  eminently 
domestic,  a  good  son,  and  will  be  a  good  husband  and 
good  father.  Some  one  you  must  marry. — What  do  you 
think  of  Claro  for  a  wife  for  you?" 

At  first  John  Todhunter  thought  it  would  be  very  much 
like  his  marrying  a  baby.  However,  he  listened  to  it,  and 
that  was  enough  for  Mrs.  Doria. 

She  went  down  to  John's  mother,  and  consulted  with 
her  on  the  propriety  of  the  scheme  of  wedding  her  daugh- 


CLARE'S  MARRIAGE  313 

ter  to  John  in  accordance  with  his  proposition.  Mrs. 
Todhunter's  jealousy  of  any  disturbing-  force  in  the  in- 
fluence she  held  over  her  son  Mrs.  Doria  knew  to  be  one 
of  the  causes  of  John's  remaining  constant  to  the  im- 
pression she  had  aforetime  produced  on  him.  She  spoke 
so  kindly  of  John,  and  laid  so  much  stress  on  the  in- 
grained obedience  and  passive  disposition  of  her  daughter, 
that  Mrs.  Todhunter  was  led  to  admit  she  did  think  it 
almost  time  John  should  be  seeking  a  mate,  and  that  he — 
all  things  considered — would  hardly  find  a  fitter  one.  And 
this,  John  Todhunter — old  John  no  more — heard  to  his 
amazement  when,  a  day  or  two  subsequently,  he  instanced 
the  probable  disapproval  of  his  mother. 

The  match  was  arranged.  Mrs.  Doria  did  the  wooing. 
It  consisted  in  telling  Clare  that  she  had  come  to  years 
when  marriage  was  desirable,  and  that  she  had  fallen  into 
habits  of  moping  which  might  have  the  worse  effect  on 
her  future  life,  as  it  had  on  her  present  health  and  ap- 
pearance, and  which  a  husband  would  cure.  Richard  was 
told  by  Mrs.  Doria  that  Clare  had  instantaneously  con- 
sented to  accept  Mr.  John  Todhunter  as  lord  of  her  days, 
and  with  more  than  obedience — with  alacrity.  At  all 
events,  when  Richard  spoke  to  Clare,  the  strange  passive 
creature  did  not  admit  constraint  on  her  inclinations. 
Mrs.  Doria  allowed  Richard  to  speak  to  her.  She  laughed 
at  his  futile  endeavours  to  undo  her  work,  and  the  boyish 
sentiments  he  uttered  on  the  subject.  "Let  us  see,  child," 
she  said,  "let  us  see  which  turns  out  the  best;  a  marriage 
of  passion,  or  a  marriage  of  common  sense." 

Heroic  efforts  were  not  wanting  to  arrest  the  union. 
Richard  made  repeated  journeys  to  Hounslow,  where 
Ralph  was  quartered,  and  if  Ralph  could  have  been  per- 
suaded to  carry  off  a  young  lady  who  did  not  love  him, 
from  the  bridegroom  her  mother  averred  she  did  love, 
Mrs.  Doria  might  have  been  defeated.  But  Ralph  in  his 
cavalry  quarters  was  cooler  than  Ralph  in  the  Bursley 
meadows.  "Women  are  oddities,  Dick,"  he  remarked, 
running  a  finger  right  and  left  along  his  upper  lip.  "Best 
leave  them  to  their  own  freaks.  She's  a  dear  girl,  though 
she  doesn't  talk :  I  like  her  for  that.  If  she  cared  for  me 
I'd  go  the  race.  She  never  did.  It's  no  use  asking  a  girl 
twice.    She  knows  whether  she  cares  a  fig  for  a  fellow." 


314      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

The  hero  quitted  him  with  some  contempt.  As  Ralph 
Morton  was  a  young  man,  and  he  had  determined  that 
John  Todhnnter  was  an  old  man,  he  Bought  another 
private  interview  with  Clare,  and  getting  her  alone,  said: 
"Clare.  1  ve  come  to  you  for  the  last  time.  Will  you  marry 
Ralph   Morton?" 

To  which  Clare  replied,  "I  cannot  marry  two  husbands, 

Richard." 

"Will  you  refuse  to  marry  this  old  man?" 
"I  must  do  as  mama  wishes." 

"Then  you're  going  to  marry  an  old  man — a  man  you 
don't  love,  and  can't  love !  Oh,  good  God !  do  you  know 
what  you're  doing?"  He  flung  about  in  a  fnr.v.  "Do  you 
know  what  it  is?  Clare!"  he  caught  her  two  hands 
violently,  "have  you  any  idea  of  the  horror  you're  going 
to  commit?" 

She  shrank  a  little  at  his  vehemence,  but  neither  blushed 
nor  stammered  :  answering:  "I  see  nothing  wrong  in  doing 
what  mama  thinks   right,   Richard." 

"Your  mother!  I  tell  you  it's  an  infamy,  Clare!  It's  a 
miserable  sin!  I  tell  you,  if  I  had  done  such  a  thing  I 
would  not  live  an  hour  after  it.  And  coldly  to  prepare  for 
it!  to  be  busy  about  your  dresses!  They  told  me  when  I 
came  in  that  you  were  with  the  milliner.  To  be  smiling 
over  the  horrible  outrage!  decorating  yourself!"    .    .    . 

"Dear  Richard,"  said  Clare,  "you  will  make  mo  very 
unhappy." 

"That  one  of  my  blood  should  be  so  debased!"  he  cried. 
brushing  angrily  at  his  face.     "Unhappy!     I  beg  you  to 
feel    for  yourself,  Clare.     But  I  suppose,"  and  he  said  it 
scornfully,  "girls  don't  feel  this  sort  of  shame." 
She  grew  a  trifle  paler. 

"Next  to  mama,  1  would  wish  to  please  you,  dear 
Richard." 

"Have  you  no  will  of  your  own  ?"  he  exclaimed. 
She  looked  at  him  softly;  a  look  he  interpreted  for  the 
meekness   he  detested    in  her. 

"No,  I  believe  you  have  none!"  he  added.  "And  what 
can  I  do?  1  can't  step  forward  and  stop  this  accursed 
marriage.  If  you  would  but  say  a  word  1  would  save  you; 
but  you  tie  my  hands.  And  they  expect  me  to  stand  by 
and  see  it  done!" 


CLARE'S  MARRIAGE  315 

"Will  you  not  be  there,  Richard  ?"  said  Clare,  following 
the  question  with  her  soft  eyes.  It  was  the  same  voice 
that  had  so  thrilled  him  on  his  marriage  morn. 

"Oh,  my  darling  Clare !"  he  cried  in  the  kindest  way  he 
had  ever  used  to  her,  "if  you  knew  how  I  feel  this !"  and 
now  as  he  wept  she  wept,  and  came  insensibly  into  his 
arms.     "My  darling  Clare!"  he  repeated. 

She  said  nothing,  but  seemed  to  shudder,  weeping. 

"You  will  do  it,  Clare?  You  will  be  sacrificed?  So 
lovely  as  you  are,  too!  .  .  .  Clare!  you  cannot  be  quite 
blind.  If  I  dared  speak  to  you,  and  tell  you  all.  .  .  . 
Look  up.     Can  you  still  consent?" 

"I  must  not  disobey  mama,"  Clare  murmured,  without 
looking  up  from  the  nest  her  cheek  had  made  on  his 
bosom. 

"Then  kiss  me  for  the  last  time,"  said  Richard.  "I'll 
never  kiss  you  after  it,  Clare." 

He  bent  his  head  to  meet  her  mouth,  and  she  threw  her 
arms  wildly  round  him,  and  kissed  him  convulsively,  and 
clung  to  his  lips,  shutting  her  eyes,  her  face  suffused  with 
a  burning  red. 

Then  he  left  her,  unaware  of  the  meaning  of  those  pas- 
sionate kisses. 

Argument  with  Mrs.  Doria  was  like  firing  paper-pellets 
against  a  stone  wall.  To  her  indeed  the  young  married 
hero  spoke  almost  indecorously,  and  that  which  his  deli- 
cacy withheld  him  from  speaking  to  Clare.  He  could  pro- 
voke nothing  more  responsive  from  the  practical  animal 
than  "Pooh-pooh!     Tush,  tush!  and  Fiddlededee!" 

"Really,"  Mrs.  Doria  said  to  her  intimates,  "that  boy's 
education  acts  like  a  disease  on  him.  He  cannot  regard 
anything  sensibly.  He  is  for  ever  in  some  mad  excess 
of  his  fancy,  and  what  he  will  come  to  at  last  heaven 
only  knows!  I  sincerely  pray  that  Austin  will  be  able 
to  bear  it." 

Threats  of  prayer,  however,  that  harp  upon  their  sin- 
cerity, are  not  very  well  worth  having.  Mrs.  Doria  had 
embarked  in  a  practical  controversy,  as  it  were,  with  her 
brother.  Doubtless  she  did  trust  he  would  be  able  to  bear 
his  sorrows  to  come,  but  one  who  has  uttered  prophecy  can 
barely  help  hoping  to  see  it  fulfilled:  she  had  prophesied 
much  grief  to  the  baronet. 


316      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

Poor  John  Todhunter,  who  would  rather  have  married 
the  mother,  and  had  none  of  your  heroic  notions  about 
the  sacred  necessity  for  love  in  marriage,  moved  as  one 
guiltless  of  offence,  and  deserving  his  happiness.  Mrs. 
Doria  shielded  him  from  the  hero.  To  see  him  smile  at 
Clare's  obedient  figure,  and  try  not  to  look  paternal,  was 
touching. 

Meantime  Clare's  marriage  served  one  purpose.  It  com- 
pletely occupied  Richard's  mind,  and  prevented  him  from 
chafing  at  the  vexation  of  not  finding  his  father  ready  to 
meet  him  when  he  came  to  town.  A  letter  had  awaited 
Adrian  at  the  hotel,  which  said,  "Detain  him  till  you  hear 
further  from  me.  Take  him  about  with  you  into  every 
form  of  society."  No  more  than  that.  Adrian  had  to  ex- 
temporize, that  the  baronet  had  gone  down  to  Wales  on 
pressing  business,  and  would  be  back  in  a  week  or  so. 
For  ulterior  inventions  and  devices  wherewith  to  keep  the 
young  gentleman  in  town,  He  applied  to  Mrs.  Doria. 
"Leave  him  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Doria,  "I'll  manage  him." 
And  she  did. 

"Who  can  say,"  asks  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip,  "when  he  is 
not  walking  a  puppet  to  some  woman?" 

Mrs.  Doria  would  hear  no  good  of  Lucy.  "I  believe," 
she  observed,  as  Adrian  ventured  a  shrugging  protest  in 
her  behalf,— -"it  is  my  firm  opinion,  that  a  scullery-maid 
would  turn  any  of  you  men  round  her  little  finger — only 
give  her  time  and  opportunity."  By  dwelling  on  the  arts 
of  women,  she  reconciled  it  to  her  conscience  to  do  her 
best  to  divide  the  young  husband  from  his  wife  till  it 
pleased  his  father  they  should  live  their  unhallowed  union 
again.  Without  compunction,  or  a  sense  of  incongruity, 
she  abused  her  brother  and  assisted  the  fulfilment  of  his 
behests. 

So  the  puppets  were  marshalled  by  Mrs.  Doria,  happy, 
or  sad,  or  indifferent.  Quite  against  his  set  resolve  and 
the  tide  of  his  feelings,  Richard  found  himself  standing 
behind  Clare  in  the  church — the  very  edifice  that  had  wit- 
nessed his  own  marriage,  and  heard,  "I,  Clare  Doria, 
take  thee  .John  Pemberton,"  clearly  pronounced.  He 
stood  with  black  lirows  dissecting  the  arts  of  the  tailor 
and  hairdresser  on  unconscious  John.  The  back,  and 
much  of  the  middle,  of  Mr.  Todhunter's  head  was  bald; 


CLARE'S  MARRIAGE  317 

the  back  shone  like  an  egg-shell,  but  across  the  middle 
the  artist  had  drawn  two  long  dabs  of  hair  from  the 
sides,  and  plastered  them  cunningly,  so  that  all  save  wilful 
eyes  would  have  acknowledged  the  head  to  be  covered. 
The  man's  only  pretension  was  to  a  respectable  juvenility. 
He  had  a  good  chest,  stout  limbs,  a  face  inclined  to  be 
jolly.  Mrs.  Doria  had  no  cause  to  be  put  out  of  counte- 
nance at  all  by  the  exterior  of  her  son-in-law :  nor  was  she. 
Her  splendid  hair  and  gratified  smile  made  a  light  in  the 
church.  Playing  puppets  must  be  an  immense  pleasure  to 
the  practical  animal.  The  Forey  bridesmaids,  five  in  num- 
ber, and  one  Miss  Doria,  their  cousin,  stood  as  girls  do 
stand  at  these  sacrifices,  whether  happy,  sad,  or  indiffer- 
ent; a  smile  on  their  lips  and  tears  in  attendance.  Old 
Mrs.  Todhunter,  an  exceedingly  small  ancient  woman,  was 
also  there.  "I  can't  have  my  boy  John  married  without 
seeing  it  done,"  she  said,  and  throughout  the  ceremony  she 
was  muttering  audible  encomiums  on  her  John's  manly 
behaviour. 

The  ring  was  affixed  to  Clare's  finger;  there  was  no 
ring  lost  in  this  common-sense  marriage.  The  instant  the 
clergyman  bade  him  employ  it,  John  drew  the  ring  out, 
and  dropped  it  on  the  finger  of  the  cold  passive  hand  in 
a  business-like  way,  as  one  who  had  studied  the  matter. 
Mrs.  Doria  glanced  aside  at  Richard.  Richard  observed 
Clare  spread  out  her  fingers  that  the  operation  might  be 
the  more  easily  effected. 

He  did  duty  in  the  vestry  a  few  minutes,  and  then  said 
to  his  aunt: 

"Now  I'll  go." 

"You'll  come  to  the  breakfast,  child  ?    The  Foreys" 

He  cut  her  short.  "I've  stood  for  the  family,  and  I'll  do 
no  more.    I  won't  pretend  to  eat  and  make  meny  over  it." 

"Richard !" 

"Good-bye." 

She  had  attained  her  object  and  she  wisely  gave  way. 

"Well.  Go  and  kiss  Clare,  and  shake  his  hand.  Pray, 
pray  be  civil." 

She  turned  to  Adrian,  and  said:  "He  is  going.  You 
must  go  with  him,  and  find  some  means  of  keeping 
him,  or  he'll  be  running  off  to  that  woman.  Now,  no 
words — go !" 


318      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

Richard  bade  Clare  farewell.  She  put  up  her  mouth  to 
him  humbly,  but  he  kissed  her  on  the  forehead. 

"Do  not  cease  to  love  me,"  she  said  in  a  quavering 
whisper  in  his  car. 

Mr.  Todhunter  stood  beaming  and  endangering  the  art 
of  the  hairdresser  with  his  pocket-handkerchief.  Now  he 
positively  was  married,  he  thought  he  would  rather  have 
the  daughter  than  the  mother,  which  is  a  reverse  of  the 
order  of  human  thankfulness  at  a  gift  of  the  Gods. 

"Richard,  my  boy !"  he  said  heartily,  "congratulate  me." 

"I  should  be  happy  to,  if  I  could,"  sedately  replied  the 
hero,  to  the  consternation  of  those  around.  Nodding  to 
the  bridesmaids  and  bowing  to  the  old  lady,  he  passed  out. 

Adrian,  who  had  been  behind  him,  deputed  to  watch  for 
a  possible  unpleasantness,  just  hinted  to  John:  "You 
know,  poor  fellow,  he  has  got  into  a  mess  with  his 
marriage." 

"Oh!  ah  I  yes!"  kindly  said  John,  "poor  fellow!" 

All  the  puppets  then  rolled  otf  to  the  breakfast. 

Adrian  hurried  after  Richard  in  an  extremely  discon- 
tented state  of  mind.  Not  to  be  at  the  breakfast  and  see 
the  best  of  the  fun,  disgusted  him.  However,  he  remem- 
bered that  he  was  a  philosopher,  and  the  strong  disgust 
he  felt  was  only  expressed  in  concentrated  cynicism  on 
every  earthly  matter  engendered  by  the  conversation. 
They  walked  side  by  side  into  Kensington  Gardens.  The 
hero  was  mouthing  away  to  himself,  talking  by  fits. 

Presently  he  faced  Adrian,  crying:  "And  I  might  have 
stopped  it !  I  see  it  now !  I  might  have  stopped  it  by  going 
straight  to  him,  and  asking  him  if  he  dared  marry  a  girl 
who  did  not  love  him.  And  I  never  thought  of  it.  Good 
heavens!    I  feel  this  miserable  affair  on  my  conscience." 

"Ah!"  groaned  Adrian.  "An  unpleasant  cargo  for  the 
conscience,  that!  I  would  rather  carry  anything  on  mine 
than  a  married  couple.  Do  you  purpose  going  to  him 
now?" 

The  hero  soliloquized:  "He's  not  a  bad  sort  of 
man."  ... 

"Well,  he's  not  a  Cavalier."  said  Adrian,  "and  that  s 
why  you  wonder  your  aunt  selected  him,  no  doubt?  He's 
decidedly  of  the  Roundhead  type,  with  the  Puritan  ex- 
tracted, or  inoffensive,  if  latent." 


CLAEE'S   MAEEIAGE  319 

"There's  the  double  infamy!"  cried  Eichard,  "that  a 
man  you  can't  call  bad,  should  do  this  damned  thing!" 

"Well,  it's  hard  we  can't  find  a  villain." 

"He  would  have  listened  to  me,  I'm  sure." 

"Go  to  him  now,  Eichard,  my  son.  Go  to  him  now.  It's 
not  yet  too  late.  Who  knows?  If  he  really  has  a  noble 
elevated  superior  mind — though  not  a  Cavalier  in  person, 
he  may  be  one  at  heart — he  might,  to  please  you,  and  since 
you  put  such  stress  upon  it,  abstain  .  .  .  perhaps  with 
some  loss  of  dignity,  but  never  mind.  And  the  request 
might  be  singular,  or  seem  so,  but  everything  has  hap- 
pened before  in  this  world,  you  know,  my  dear  boy.  And 
what  an  infinite  consolation  it  is  for  the  eccentric,  that 
reflection !" 

The  hero  was  impervious  to  the  wise  youth.  He  stared 
at  him  as  if  he  were  but  a  speck  in  the  universe  he 
visioned. 

It  was  provoking  that  Eichard  should  be  Adrian's  best 
subject  for  cynical  pastime,  in  the  extraordinary  hetero- 
doxies he  started,  and  his  worst  in  the  way  he  took  it; 
and  the  wise  youth,  against  his  will,  had  to  feel  as  con- 
scious of  the  young  man's  imaginative  mental  armour,  as 
he  was  of  his  muscular  physical. 

"The  same  sort  of  day!"  mused  Eichard,  looking  up. 
"I  suppose  my  father's  right.  We  make  our  own  fates, 
and  nature  has  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

Adrian  yawned. 

"Some  difference  in  the  trees,  though,"  Eichard  con- 
tinued abstractedly. 

"Growing  bald  at  the  top,"  said  Adrian. 

"Will  you  believe  that  my  aunt  Helen  compared  the 
conduct  of  that  wretched  slave  Clare  to  Lucy's,  who,  she 
had  the  cruel  insolence  to  say,  entangled  me  into  mar- 
riage?" the  hero  broke  out  loudly  and  rapidly.  "You 
know — I  told  you,  Adrian — how  I  had  to  threaten  and 
insist,  and  how  she  pleaded,  and  implored  me  to  wait." 

"Ah !  hum  !"  mumbled  Adrian. 

"You  remember  my  telling  you?"  Eichard  was  earnest 
to  hear  her  exonerated. 

"Pleaded  and  implored,  my  dear  boy  ?  Oh,  no  doubt  she 
did.     Where's  the  lass  that  doesn't." 

"Call  my  wife  by  another  name,  if  you  please." 


320      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"The  generic  title  can't  be  cancelled  because  of  your 
having  married  one  of  the  body,  my  son." 

"She  did  all  she  could  to  persuade  me  to  wait!"  empha- 
sized Richard. 

Adrian  shook  his  head  with  a  deplorable  smile. 

"Come,  come,  my  good  Ricky;  not  all!  not  all!" 

Richard  bellowed:  "What  more  could  she  have  done?" 

"She  could  have  shaved  her  head,  for  instance." 

This  happy  shaft  did  stick.  With  a  furious  exclama- 
tion Richard  shot  in  front,  Adrian  following  him;  and 
asking  him  (merely  to  have  his  assumption  verified), 
whether  he  did  not  think  she  might  have  shaved  her  head? 
and,  presuming  her  to  have  done  so,  whether,  in  candour, 
he  did  not  think  he  would  have  waited — at  least  till  she 
looked  less  of  a  rank  lunatic? 

After  a  minute  or  so,  the  wise  youth  was  but  a  fly  buzz- 
ing about  Richard's  head.  Three  weeks  of  separation  from 
Lucy,  and  an  excitement  deceased,  caused  him  to  have  soft 
yearnings  for  the  dear  lovely  home-face.  He  told  Adrian 
it  was  his  intention  to  go  down  that  night.  Adrian  imme- 
diately became  serious.  He  was  at  a  loss  what  to  invent 
to  detain  him,  beyond  the  stale  fiction  that  his  father  was 
coming  to-morrow.  He  rendered  homage  to  the  genius  of 
woman  in  these  straits.  "My  aunt,"  he  thought,  "would 
have  the  lie  ready ;  and  not  only  that,  but  she  would  take 
care  it  did  its  work." 

At  this  juncture  the  voice  of  a  cavalier  in  the  Row 
hailed  them,  proving  to  be  the  Honourable  Peter  Brayder, 
Lord  Mountfalcon's  parasite.  He  greeted  them  very 
cordially;  and  Richard,  remembering  some  fun  they  had 
in  the  Island,  asked  him  to  dine  with  them;  postponing 
his  return  till  the  next  day.  Lucy  was  his.  It  was  even 
sweet  to  dally  with  the  delight  of  seeing  her. 

The  Hon.  Peter  was  one  who  did  honour  to  the  body  he 
belonged  to.  Though  not  so  tall  as  a  West  of  London  foot- 
man, he  was  as  shapely;  and  he  had  a  power  of  making  his 
voice  insinuating,  or  arrogant,  as  it  suited  the  exigencies 
of  his  profession.  He  had  not  a  rap  of  money  in  the 
world;  yet  he  rode  a  horse,  lived  high,  expended  largely. 
The  world  said  that  the  Hon.  Peter  was  salaried  by  his 
Lordship,  and  that,  in  common  with  that  of  Parasite,  he 
exercised    the    ancient   companion    profession.      This   the 


CLARE'S  MARRIAGE  321 

world  said,  and  still  smiled  at  the  Hon.  Peter ;  for  he  was 
an  engaging  fellow,  and  where  he  went  not  Lord  Mount- 
falcon  would  not  go. 

They  had  a  quiet  little  hotel  dinner,  ordered  by  Adrian, 
and  made  a  square  at  the  table,  Ripton  Thompson  being 
the  fourth.  Richard  sent  down  to  his  office  to  fetch  him, 
and  the  two  friends  shook  hands  for  the  first  time  since 
the  great  deed  had  been  executed.  Deep  was  the  Old  Dog's 
delight  to  hear  the  praises  of  his  Beauty  sounded  by  such 
aristocratic  lips  as  the  Hon.  Peter  Brayder's.  All  through 
the  dinner  he  was  throwing  out  hints  and  small  queries 
to  get  a  fuller  account  of  her;  and  when  the  claret  had 
circulated,  he  spoke  a  word  or  two  himself,  and  heard  the 
Hon.  Peter  eulogize  his  taste,  and  wish  him  a  bride  as 
beautiful;  at  which  Ripton  blushed,  and  said,  he  had  no 
hope  of  that,  and  the  Hon.  Peter  assured  him  marriage 
did  not  break  the  mould. 

After  the  wine  this  gentleman  took  his  cigar  on  the 
balcony,  and  found  occasion  to  get  some  conversation  with 
Adrian  alone. 

"Our  young  friend  here — made  it  all  right  with  the 
governor?"  he  asked  carelessly. 

"Oh  yes !"  said  Adrian.  But  it  struck  him  that  Brayder 
might  be  of  assistance  in  showing  Richard  a  little  of  the 
"society  in  every  form,"  required  by  his  chief's  prescript. 
"That  is,"  he  continued,  "we  are  not  yet  permitted  an  in- 
terview with  the  august  author  of  our  being,  and  I  have 
rather  a  difficult  post.  'Tis  mine  both  to  keep  him  here, 
and  also  to  find  him  the  opportunity  to  measure  himself 
with  his  fellow-man.  In  other  words,  his  father  wants 
him  to  see  something  of  life  before  he  enters  upon  house- 
keeping. Now  I  am  proud  to  confess  that  I'm  hardly 
equal  to  the  task.  The  demi,  or  damnedmonde — if  it's 
that  he  wants  him  to  observe — is  one  that  I  have  not  got 
the  walk  to." 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  Brayder.  "You  do  the  keeping,  I 
offer  to  parade  the  demi.  I  must  say,  though,  it's  a  queer 
notion  of  the  old  gentleman." 

"It's  the  continuation  of  a  philosophic  plan,"  said 
Adrian. 

Brayder  followed  the  curvings  of  the  whiff  of  his  cigar 
with  his  eyes,  and  ejaculated,  "Infernally  philosophic!" 


322      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

'•Has  Lord  .Mount  falcon  Left  the  island?"  Adrian  in- 
quired. 

".Mount?  to  toll  the  truth  I  don't  know  where  he  is. 
Chasing  some  light  craft.  1  suppose.  That's  poor  Mount's 
weakness.  It's  his  ruin,  poor  fellow!  He's  so  confound- 
edly in  earnest  at  tho  game." 

"He  ought  to  know  it  by  this  time,  if  fame  speaks  true," 
remarked  Adrian. 

''He's  a  baby  about  women,  and  always  will  be,"  said 
Brayder.  "He's  been  once  or  twice  wanting  to  marry 
them.  Now  there's  a  woman — you've  heard  of  Mrs. 
Mount?  All  the  world  knows  her. — If  that  woman  hadn't 
scandalized." — The  young  man  joined  them,  and  checked 
the  communication,  Brayder  winked  to  Adrian,  and  piti- 
fully indicated  the  presence  of  an  innocent. 

"A  married  man,  you  know,"  said  Adrian. 

"Yes,  yes! — we  won't  shock  him,"  Brayder  observed. 
He  appeared  to  study  the  young  man  while  they  talked. 

Next  morning  Richard  was  surprised  by  a  visit  from  his 
aunt.  Mrs.  Doria  took  a  seat  by  his  side,  and  spoke  as 
follows : 

"My  dear  nephew.  Now  you  know  I  have  always  loved 
you,  and  thought  of  your  welfare  as  if  you  had  been  my 
own  child.  More  than  that,  I  fear.  Well,  now,  you  are 
thinking  of  returning  to — to  that  place — are  you  not? 
Yes.  It  is  as  I  thought.  Very  well  now,  let  me  speak  to 
you.  You  are  in  a  much  more  dangerous  position  than 
you  imagine.  I  don't  deny  your  father's  affection  for  you. 
It  would  be  absurd  to  deny  it.  But  you  are  of  an  age 
now  to  appreciate  his  character.  Whatever  you  may  do 
he  will  always  give  you  money.  That  you  are  sure  of; 
that  you  know.  Very  well.  But  you  are  one  to  want 
more  than  money:  you  want  his  love.  Richard,  I  am 
convinced  you  will  never  be  happy,  whatever  base  pleas- 
ures you  may  be  led  into,  if  he  should  withhold  his  love 
from  you.  Now,  child,  you  know  you  have  grievously 
offended  him.  I  wish  not  to  animadvert  on  your  conduct. 
— You  fancied  yourself  in  love,  and  so  on,  and  you  were 
rash.  The  less  said  of  it  the  better  now.  But  you  must 
now-  it  is  your  duty  now  to  do  something — to  do  every- 
thing that  liea  in  your  power  to  show  him  you  repent.  No 
interruptions!     Listen  to  me.     You  must  consider  him. 


CLARE'S   MARRIAGE  323 

Austin  is  not  like  other  men.  Austin  requires  the  most 
delicate  management.  You  must — whether  you  feel  it  or 
no — present  an  appearance  of  contrition.  I  counsel  it  for 
the  good  of  all.  He  is  just  like  a  woman,  and  where  his 
feelings  are  offended  he  wants  utter  subservience.  He  has 
you  in  town,  and  he  does  not  see  you : — now  you  know  that 
he  and  I  are  not  in  communication :  we  have  likewise  our 
differences : — Well,  he  has  you  in  town,  and  he  holds  aloof : 
— he  is  trying  you,  my  dear  Richard.  No:  he  is  not  at 
Raynham :  I  do  not  know  where  he  is.  He  is  trying  you, 
child,  and  you  must  be  patient.  You  must  convince  him 
that  you  do  not  care  utterly  for  your  own  gratification. 
If  this  person — I  wish  to  speak  of  her  with  respect,  for 
your  sake — well,  if  she  loves  you  at  all — if,  I  say,  she  loves 
you  one  atom,  she  will  repeat  my  solicitations  for  you  to 
stay  and  patiently  wait  here  till  he  consents  to  see  you.  I 
tell  you  candidly,  it's  your  only  chance  of  ever  getting 
him  to  receive  her.  That  you  should  know.  And  now, 
Richard,  I  may  add  that  there  is  something  else  you  should 
know.  You  should  know  that  it  depends  entirely  upon 
your  conduct  now,  whether  you  are  to  see  your  father's 
heart  for  ever  divided  from  you,  and  a  new  family  at 
Raynham.  You  do  not  understand?  I  will  explain. 
Brothers  and  sisters  are  excellent  things  for  young  peo- 
ple, but  a  new  brood  of  them  can  hardly  be  acceptable  to 
a  young  man.  In  fact,  they  are,  and  must  be,  aliens.  I 
only  tell  you  what  I  have  heard  on  good  authority.  Don't 
you  understand  now  ?  Foolish  boy !  if  you  do  not  humour 
him,  he  will  marry  her.  Oh !  I  am  sure  of  it.  I  know  it. 
And  this  you  will  drive  him  to.  I  do  not  warn  you  on  the 
score  of  your  prospects,  but  of  your  feelings.  I  should 
regard  such  a  contingency,  Richard,  as  a  final  division  be- 
tween you.  Think  of  the  scandal!  but  alas,  that  is  the 
least  of  the  evils." 

It  was  Mrs.  Doria's  object  to  produce  an  impression, 
and  avoid  an  argument.  She  therefore  left  him  as  soon 
as  she  had,  as  she  supposed,  made  her  mark  on  the  young 
man.  Richard  was  very  silent  during  the  speech,  and 
save  for  an  exclamation  or  so,  had  listened  attentively. 
He  pondered  on  what  his  aunt  said.  He  loved  Lady 
Blandish,  and  yet  he  did  not  wish  to  see  her  Lady  Feverel. 
Mrs.  Doria  laid  painful  stress  on  the  scandal,  and  though 


324      Till:  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

he  did  not  give  his  mind  to  this,  he  thought  of  it.  He 
thought  of  his  mother.  Where  was  she?  But  most  his 
thoughts  recurred  to  his  father,  and  something  akin  to 
jealousy  slowly  awakened  his  heart  to  him.  He  had 
given  him  up,  and  had  not  latterly  felt  extremely  filial; 
hut  he  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  a  division  in  the  love 
of  which  he  had  ever  been  the  idol  and  sole  object.  And 
such  a  man,  too!  so  good!  so  generous!  If  it  was  jealousy 
that  roused  the  young  man's  heart  to  his  father,  the 
better  part  of  love  was  also  revived  in  it.  He  thought  of 
old  days:  of  his  father's  forbearance,  his  own  wilfulness. 
He  looked  on  himself,  and  what  he  had  done,  with  the 
eyes  of  such  a  man.  He  determined  to  do  all  he  could 
to  regain  his  favour. 

Mrs.  Doria  learnt  from  Adrian  in  the  evening  that  her 
nephew  intended  waiting  in  town  another  week. 

'That  will  do,"  smiled  Mrs.  Doria.  "He  will  be  more 
patient  at  the  end  of  a  week." 

"Oh!  does  patience  beget  patience?"  said  Adrian.  "I 
was  not  aware  it  was  a  propagating  virtue.  I  surrender 
him  to  you.  I  shan't  be  able  to  hold  him  in  after  one 
week  more.    I  assure  you,  my  dear  aunt,  he's  already"  .  .  . 

"Thank  you,  no  explanation,"  Mrs.  Doria  begged. 

When  Richard  saw  her  next,  he  was  informed  that  she 
had  received  a  most  satisfactory  letter  from  Mrs.  John 
Todhunter:  quite  a  glowing  account  of  John's  behaviour: 
but  on  Richard's  desiring  to  know  the  words  Olare  had 
written,  Mrs.  Doria  objected  to  be  explicit,  and  shot  into 
worldly  gossip. 

"Clare  seldom  glows,"  said  Richard. 

"No,  I  mean  for  har,"  his  aunt  remarked.  "Don't  look 
like  your  father,  child." 

"I  should  like  to  have  seen  the  letter,"  said  Richard. 

Mrs.  Doria  did  not  propose  to  show  it. 


A  DINNER-PARTY  AT  RICHMOND         325 

CHAPTER   XXXVI 
A   DINNER-PARTY    AT   RICHMOND 

A  lady  driving  a  pair  of  greys  was  noticed  by  Richard 
in  his  rides  and  walks.  She  passed  him  rather  obviously 
and  often.  She  was  very  handsome;  a  bold  beauty,  with 
shining  black  hair,  red  lips,  and  eyes  not  afraid  of  men. 
The  hair  was  brushed  from  her  temples,  leaving  one  of 
those  fine  reckless  outlines  which  the  action  of  driving, 
and  the  pace,  admirably  set  off.  She  took  his  fancy.  He 
liked  the  air  of  petulant  gallantry  about  her,  and  mused 
upon  the  picture,  rare  to  him,  of  a  glorious  dashing 
woman.  He  thought,  too,  she  looked  at  him.  He  was 
not  at  the  time  inclined  to  be  vain,  or  he  might  have  been 
sure  she  did.     Once  it  struck  him  she  nodded  slightly. 

He  asked  Adrian  one  day  in  the  park — who  she  was. 

"I  don't  know  her,"  said  Adrian.  "Probably  a  superior 
priestess  of  Paphos." 

"Now  that's  my  idea  of  Bellona,"  Richard  exclaimed. 
"Not  the  fury  they  paint,  but  a  spirited,  dauntless,  eager- 
looking  creature  like  that." 

"Bellona?"  returned  the  wise  youth.  "I  don't  think 
her  hair  was  black.  Red,  wasn't  it?  I  shouldn't  compare 
her  to  Bellona;  though,  no  doubt,  she's  as  ready  to  spill 
blood.  Look  at  her!  She  does  seem  to  scent  carnage.  I 
see  your  idea.  No;  I  should  liken  her  to  Diana  emerged 
from  the  tutorship  of  Master  Endymion,  and  at  nice  play 
among  the  gods.  Depend  upon  it — they  tell  us  nothing  of 
the  matter — Olympus  shrouds  the  story — but  you  may  be 
certain  that  when  she  left  the  pretty  shepherd  she  had 
greater  vogue  than  Venus  up  aloft." 

Brayder  joined  them. 

"See  Mrs.  Mount  go  by?"  he  said. 

"Oh,  that's  Mrs.  Mount!"  cried  Adrian. 

"Who's  Mrs.  Mount?"  Richard  inquired. 

"A  sister  to  Miss  Random,  my  dear  boy." 

"Like  to  know  her?"  drawled  the  Hon.  Peter. 

Richard  replied  indifferently,  "No,"  and  Mrs.  Mount 
passed  out  of  sight  and  out  of  the  conversation. 


32G      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

The  young  man  wrote  submissive  letters  to  his  father. 
"I  have  remained  here  waiting  to  see  you  now  five  weeks," 
he  wrote.  "I  have  written  to  von  three  letters,  and  you  do 
not  reply  to  them.  Let  me  tell  you  again  how  sincerely  I 
desire  and  pray  that  you  will  come,  or  permit  me  to  come 
to  you  and  throw  myself  at  your  feet,  and  beg  my  forgive- 
ness, and  hers.  She  as  earnestly  implores  it.  Indeed,  I 
am  very  wretched,  sir.  Believe  me,  there  is  nothing  I 
would  not  do  to  regain  your  esteem  and  the  love  I  fear 
I  have  unhappily  forfeited.  I  will  remain  another  week 
in  the  hope  of  hearing  from  you,  or  seeing  you.  I  beg 
of  you,  sir,  not  to  drive  me  mad.  Whatever  you  ask  of 
me  I  will  consent  to." 

"Nothing  he  would  not  do!"  the  baronet  commented  as 
he  read.  "There  is  nothing  he  would  not  do!  He  will 
remain  another  week  and  give  me  that  final  chance!  And 
it  is  I  who  drive  him  mad!  Already  he  is  beginning  to 
cast  his  retribution  on  my  shoulders." 

Sir  Austin  had  really  gone  down  to  Wales  to  be  out  of 
the  way.  A  Shaddock-Dogmatist  does  not  meet  misfortune 
without  hearing  of  it,  and  the  author  of  The  Pilgrim's 
Scrip  in  trouble  found  London  too  hot  for  him.  He 
quitted  London  to  take  refuge  among  the  mountains; 
living  there  in  solitary  commune  with  a  virgin  Note-book. 

Some  indefinite  scheme  was  in  his  head  in  this  treat- 
ment of  his  son.  Had  he  construed  it,  it  would  have 
looked  ugly;  and  it  settled  to  a  vague  principle  that  the 
young  man  should  be  tried  and  tested. 

"Let  him  learn  to  deny  himself  something.  Let  him  live 
with  his  equals  for  a  term.  If  he  loves  me  he  will  read 
my  wishes."  Thus  he  explained  his  principle  to  Lady 
Blandish. 

The  lady  wrote:  "You  speak  of  a  term.  Till  when? 
May  I  name  one  to  him?  It  is  the  dreadful  uncertainty 
that  reduces  him  to  despair.  That,  and  nothing  else. 
Pray  be  explicit." 

In  return,  he  distantly  indicated  Richard's  majority. 

How  could  Lady  Blandish  go  and  ask  the  young  man 
to  wait  a  year  away  from  his  wife?  Her  instinct  began 
to  open  a  wide  eye  on  the  idol  she  worshipped. 

When  people  do  not  themselves  know  what  they  mean, 
they    succeed    in    deceiving    and    imposing    upon    others. 


A  DINNER-PARTY  AT  RICHMOND         327 

Not  only  was  Lady  Blandish  mystified;  Mrs.  Doria,  who 
pierced  into  the  recesses  of  everybody's  mind,  and  had 
always  been  in  the  habit  of  reading  off  her  brother  from 
infancy,  and  had  never  known  herself  to  be  once  wrong 
about  him,  she  confessed  she  was  quite  at  a  loss  to  com- 
prehend Austin's  principle.  "For  principle  he  has,"  said 
Mrs.  Doria;  "he  never  acts  without  one.  But  what  it  is, 
I  cannot  at  present  perceive.  If  he  would  write,  and 
command  the  boy  to  await  his  return,  all  would  be  clear. 
He  allows  us  to  go  and  fetch  him,  and  then  leaves  us 
all  in  a  quandary.  It  must  be  some  woman's  influence. 
That  is  the  only  way  to  account  for  it." 

"Singular!"  interjected  Adrian,  "what  pride  women 
have  in  their  sex!  Well,  I  have  to  tell  you,  my  dear 
aunt,  that  the  day  after  to-morrow  I  hand  my  charge  over 
to  your  keeping.  I  can't  hold  him  in  an  hour  longer. 
I've  had  to  leash  him  with  lies  till  my  invention's  ex- 
hausted. I  petition  to  have  them  put  down  to  the  chief's 
account,  but  when  the  stream  runs  dry  I  can  do  no  more. 
The  last  was,  that  I  had  heard  from  him  desiring  me 
to  have  the  South-west  bedroom  ready  for  him  on  Tues- 
day proximate.  'So!'  says  my  son,  Til  wait  till  then,' 
and  from  the  gigantic  effort  he  exhibited  in  coming  to  it, 
I  doubt  any  human  power's  getting  him  to  wait  longer." 

"We  must,  we  must  detain  him,"  said  Mrs.  Doria.  "If 
we  do  not,  I  am  convinced  Austin  will  do  something  rash 
that  he  will  for  ever  repent.  He  will  marry  that  woman, 
Adrian.  Mark  my  words.  Now  with  any  other  young 
man !  .  .  .  But  Richard's  education !  that  ridiculous 
System!  .  .  .  Has  he  no  distraction?  nothing  to  amuse 
him?" 

"Poor  boy!  I  suppose  he  wants  his  own  particular 
playfellow." 

The  wise  youth  had  to  bow  to  a  reproof. 

"I  tell  you,  Adrian,  he  will  marry  that  woman." 

"My  dear  aunt!  Can  a  chaste  man  do  aught  more 
commendable  ?" 

"Has  the  boy  no  object  we  can  induce  him  to  follow  ? — 
If  he  had  but  a  profession!" 

"What  say  you  to  the  regeneration  of  the  streets  of 
London,  and  the  profession  of  moral-scavenger,  aunt? 
I  assure  you  I  have  served  a  month's  apprenticeship  with 


328      THE  ORDKAL  OF  RICHARD  FKVKKEL 

him.  We  sally  forth  on  the  tenth  hour  of  the  night.  A 
female  passes.  I  hear  him  groan.  'Is  she  one  of  them, 
Adrian?'  I  am  compelled  to  admit  she  is  not  the  saint 
he  deems  it  the  portion  of  every  creature  wearing  petti- 
coats to  be.  Another  groan ;  an  evident  internal,  'It 
cannot  be — and  yet!'  .  .  .  that  we  hear  on  the  stage. 
Rollings  of  eyes:  impious  questionings  of  the  Creator  of 
the  universe;  savage  muttcrings  against  brutal  males; 
and  then  we  meet  a  second  young  person,  and  repeat  the 
performance — of  which  I  am  rather  tired.  It  would  be 
all  very  well,  but  he  turns  upon  me,  and  lectures  me 
because  I  don't  hire  a  house,  and  furnish  it  for  all  the 
women  one  meets  to  live  in  in  purity.  Now  that's  too 
much  to  ask  of  a  quiet  man.  Master  Thompson  has 
latterly  relieved  me,  I'm  happy  to  say." 

Mrs.  Doria  thought  her  thoughts. 

"Has  Austin  written  to  you  since  you  were  in  town  :" 

"Not  an  Aphorism!"  returned  Adrian. 

"I  must  see  Richard  to-morrow  morning,"  Mrs.  Doria 
ended  the  colloquy  by  saying. 

The  result  of  her  interview  with  her  nephew  was,  that 
Richard  made  no  allusion  to  a  departure  on  the  Tuesday; 
and  for  many  days  afterward  he  appeared  to  have  an 
absorbing  business  on  his  hands:  but  what  it  was  Adrian 
did  not  then  learn,  and  his  admiration  of  Mrs.  Doria's 
genius  for  management  rose  to  a  very  high  pitch. 

On  a  morning  in  October  they  had  an  early  visitor  in 
the  person  of  the  Hon.  Peter,  whom  they  had  not  seen 
for  a  week  or  more. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  flourishing  his  cane  in  his  most 
affable  manner,  "I've  come  to  propose  to  you  to  join  us 
in  a  little  dinner-party  at  Richmond.  Nobody's  in  town, 
you  know.  London's  as  dead  as  a  stock-fish.  Nothing 
but  the  scrapings  to  offer  you.  But  the  weather's  fine: 
I  flatter  myself  you'll  find  the  company  agreeable.  What 
says  my  friend   Feverel  V 

Richard  begged  to  be  excused. 

"No,  no:  positively  you  must  come,"  said  the  Hon. 
Peter.  "I've  had  some  trouble  to  get  them  together  to 
relieve  the  dulness  of  your  incarceration.  Richmond's 
within  the  rules  of  your  prison.     You  can  be  back  by 


A  DINNEE-PAETY  AT  EICHMOND        329 

night.  Moonlight  on  the  water — lovely  woman.  We've 
engaged  a  city-barge  to  pull  us  back.  Eight  oars — I'm 
not  sure  it  isn't  sixteen.     Come — the  word!" 

Adrian  was  for  going.  Eichard  said  he  had  an  appoint- 
ment with  Eipton. 

"You're  in  for  another  rick,  you  two,"  said  Adrian. 
"Arrange  that  we  go.  You  haven't  seen  the  cockney's 
Paradise.     Abjure  Blazes,  and  taste  of  peace,  my  son." 

After  some  persuasion,  Eichard  yawned  wearily,  and 
got  up,  and  threw  aside  the  care  that  was  on  him,  saying, 
"Very  well.    Just  as  you  like.    We'll  take  old  Eip  with  us." 

Adrian  consulted  Brayder's  eye  at  this.  The  Hon. 
Peter  briskly  declared  he  should  be  delighted  to  have 
Feverel's  friend,  and  offered  to  take  them  all  down  in 
his  drag. 

"If  you  don't  get  a  match  on  to  swim  there  with  the 
tide — eh,  Feverel,  my  boy?" 

Eichard  replied  that  he  had  given  up  that  sort  of 
thing,  at  which  Brayder  communicated  a  queer  glance 
to  Adrian,  and  applauded  the  youth. 

Eichmond  was  under  a  still  October  sun.  The  pleasant 
landscape,  bathed  in  Autumn,  stretched  from  the  foot  of 
the  hill  to  a  red  horizon  haze.  The  day  was  like  none 
that  Eichard  vividly  remembered.  It  touched  no  link  in 
the  chain  of  his  recollection.  It  was  quiet,  and  belonged 
to  the  spirit  of  the  season. 

Adrian  had  divined  the  character  of  the  scrapings  they 
were  to  meet.  Brayder  introduced  them  to  one  or  two  of 
the  men,  hastily  and  in  rather  an  undervoice,  as  a  thing  to 
get  over.  They  made  their  bow  to  the  first  knot  of  ladies 
they  encountered.  Propriety  was  observed  strictly,  even 
to  severity.  The  general  talk  was  of  the  weather.  Here 
and  there  a  lady  would  seize  a  button-hole  or  any  little 
bit  of  the  habiliments,  of  the  man  she  was  addressing; 
and  if  it  came  to  her  to  chide  him,  she  did  it  with  more 
than  a  forefinger.  This,  however,  was  only  here  and 
there,  and  a  privilege  of  intimacy. 

Where  ladies  are  gathered  together,  the  Queen  of  the 
assemblage  may  be  known  by  her  Court  of  males.  The 
Queen  of  the  present  gathering  leaned  against  a  corner  of 
the  open  window,  surrounded  by  a  stalwart  Court,  in  whom 
a   practised   eye  would  have   discerned  guardsmen,    and 


330      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

Ripton,  with  a  Bulking  of  the  heart,  apprehended  lords. 
They  were  fine  men,  offering  inanimate  homage.  The 
trim  of  their  whiskerage,  the  cut  of  their  coats,  the  high- 
bred indolence  in  their  aspect,  eclipsed  Kipton's  sense  of 
self-esteem.  But  they  kindly  looked  over  him.  Occasion- 
ally one  committed  a  momentary  outrage  on  him  with  an 
eye-glass,  seeming  to  cry  out  in  a  voice  of  scathing  scorn, 
"Who's  this?"  and  Ripton  got  closer  to  his  hero  to  justify 
his  humble  pretensions  to  existence  and  an  identity  in 
the  shadow  of  him.  Richard  gazed  about.  Heroes  do 
not  always  know  what  to  say  or  do;  and  the  cold  bath 
before  dinner  in  strange  company  is  one  of  the  instances. 
He  had  recognized  his  superb  Bellona  in  the  lady  by  the 
garden  window.  For  Brayder  the  men  had  nods  and 
jokes,  the  ladies  a  pretty  playfulness.  He  was  very  busy, 
passing  between  the  groups,  chatting,  laughing,  taking 
the  feminine  taps  he  received,  and  sometimes  returning 
them  in  sly  whispers.  Adrian  sat  down  and  crossed  his 
legs,  looking  amused  and  benignant. 

"Whose  dinner  is  it?"  Ripton  heard  a  mignonne  beauty 
ask  of  a  cavalier. 

"Mount's,  I  suppose,"  was  the  answer. 

"Where  is  he?     Why  don't  he  come?" 

"An  atFaire,  I  fancy." 

"There  he  is  again!  How  shamefully  he  treats  Mrs. 
Mount!" 

"She  don't  seem  to  cry  over  it." 

Mrs.  Mount  was  flashing  her  teeth  and  eyes  with 
laughter  at  one  of  her  Court,  who  appeared  to  be  Fool. 

Dinner  was  announced.  The  ladies  proclaimed  extrava- 
gant appetites.  Brayder  posted  his  three  friends.  Ripton 
found  himself  under  the  lee  of  a  dame  with  a  bosom.  On 
the  other  side  of  him  was  the  mignonne.  Adrian  was  at 
the  lower  end  of  the  table.  Ladies  were  in  profusion,  and 
he  had  his  share.  Brayder  drew  Richard  from  seat  to 
seat.  A  happy  man  had  established  himself  next  to  Mrs. 
Mount.  Him  Brayder  hailed  to  take  the  head  of  the 
table.  The  happy  man  objected,  Brayder  continued  ur- 
gent, the  lady  tenderly  insisted,  the  happy  man  grimaced, 
dropped  into  the  post  of  honour,  strove  to  look  placable. 
Richard  usurped  his  chair,  and  was  not  badly  welcomed 
by  his  neighbour. 


A  DINNER-PARTY  AT  RICHMOND        331 

Then  the  dinner  commenced,  and  had  all  the  attention 
of  the  company,  till  the  flying  of  the  first  champagne-cork 
gave  the  signal,  and  a  hum  began  to  spread.  Sparkling 
wine,  that  looseneth  the  tongue,  and  displayeth  the  verity, 
hath  also  the  quality  of  colouring  it.  The  ladies  laughed 
high ;  Richard  only  thought  them  gay  and  natural.  They 
flung  back  in  their  chairs  and  laughed  to  tears;  Ripton 
thought  only  of  the  pleasure  he  had  in  their  society.  The 
champagne-corks  continued  a  regular  file-firing. 

"Where  have  you  been  lately?  I  haven't  seen  you  in 
the  park,"  said  Mrs.  Mount  to  Richard. 

"No,"  he  replied,  "I've  not  been  there."  The  question 
seemed  odd:  she  spoke  so  simply  that  it  did  not  impress 
him.     He  emptied  his  glass,  and  had  it  filled  again. 

The  Hon.  Peter  did  most  of  the  open  talking,  which 
related  to  horses,  yachting,  opera,  and  sport  generally: 
who  was  ruined,  by  what  horse,  or  by  what  woman.  He 
told  one  or  two  of  Richard's  feats.  Fair  smiles  rewarded 
the  hero. 

"Do  you  bet?"  said  Mrs.  Mount. 

"Only  on  myself,"  returned  Richard. 

"Bravo!"  cried  his  Bellona,  and  her  eye  sent  a  linger- 
ing delirious  sparkle  across  her  brimming  glass  at  him. 

"I'm  sure  you're  a  safe  one  to  back,"  she  added,  and 
seemed  to  scan  his  points  approvingly. 

Richard's  cheeks  mounted  bloom. 

"Don't  you  adore  champagne?"  quoth  the  dame  with 
a  bosom  to  Ripton. 

"Oh,  yes!"  answered  Ripton,  with  more  candour  than 
accuracy,  "I  always  drink  it." 

"Do  you  indeed?"  said  the  enraptured  bosom,  ogling 
him.  "You  would  be  a  friend,  now!  I  hope  you  don't 
object  to  a  lady  joining  you  now  and  then.  Champagne's 
my  folly." 

A  laugh  was  circling  among  the  ladies  of  whom  Adrian 
was  the  centre ;  first  low,  and  as  he  continued  some  narra- 
tion, peals  resounded,  till  those  excluded  from  the  fun  de- 
manded the  cue,  and  ladies  leaned  behind  gentlemen  to 
take  it  up,  and  formed  an  electric  chain  of  laughter. 
Each  one,  as  her  ear  received  it,  caught  up  her  handker- 
chief, and  laughed,  and  looked  shocked  afterwards,  or 
looked  shocked  and  then  spouted  laughter.    The  anecdote 


332      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

might  have  been  communicated  to  the  bewildered  cav- 
aliers, but  coming  to  a  lady  of  a  demurer  cast,  she  looked 
shocked  without  laughing,  and  reproved  the  female  table, 
in  whoso  breasts  it  was  consigned  to  burial:  but  here 
and  there  a  man's  head  was  seen  bent,  and  a  lady's  mouth 
moved,  though  her  face  was  not  turned  toward  him,  and 
a  man's  broad  laugh  was  presently  heard,  while  the  lady 
gazed  unconsciously  before  her,  and  preserved  her  gravity 
if  she  could  escape  any  other  lady's  eyes;  failing  in 
which,  handkerchiefs  wTere  simultaneously  seized,  and  a 
second  chime  arose,  till  the  tickling  force  subsided  to  a 
few  chance  bursts. 

What  nonsense  it  is  that  my  father  writes  about  women ! 
thought  Richard.  He  says  they  can't  laugh,  and  don't 
understand  humour.  It  comes,  he  reflected,  of  his  shutting 
himself  from  the  world.  And  the  idea  that  he  was  seeing 
the  world,  and  feeling  wiser,  flattered  him.  He  talked 
fluently  to  his  dangerous  Bellona.  He  gave  her  some 
reminiscences  of  Adrian's  whimsies. 

"Oh!"  said  she,  "that's  your  tutor,  is  it!"  She  eyed 
the  young  man  as  if  she  thought  he  must  go  far  and  fast. 

Ripton  felt  a  push.  "Look  at  that,"  said  the  bosom, 
fuming  \itter  disgust.  He  was  directed  to  see  a  manly 
arm  round  the  waist  of  the  mignonne.  "Now  that's  what 
I  don't  like  in  company,"  the  bosom  inflated  to  observe 
with  sufficient  emphasis.  "She  always  will  allow  it  with 
everybody.     Give  her  a  nudge." 

Ripton  protested  that  he  dared  not;  upon  which  she 
said,  "Then  I  will";  and  inclined  her  sumptuous  bust 
across  his  lap,  breathing  wine  in  his  face,  and  gave  the 
nudge.  The  mignonne  turned  an  inquiring  eye  on  Rip- 
ton; a  mischievous  spark  shot  from  it.  She  laughed, 
and  said:   "Aren't  you  satisfied  with  the  old  bird?" 

"Impudence!"  muttered  the  bosom,  growing  grander 
and  rodder. 

"Do,  do  fill  her  glass,  and  keep  her  quiet — she  drinks 
port  when  there's  no  more  champagne,"  said  the  mi- 
gnonne. 

The  bosom  revenged  herself  by  whispering  to  Ripton 
scandal  of  the  mignonne,  and  between  them  he  was  en- 
abled to  form  a  corrector  estimate  of  the  company,  and 
quite  recovered   from   his   original    awe:   so   much   so   as 


A  DINNEE-PAETY  AT  EICHMOND         333 

to   feel    a   touch   of   jealousy    at   seeing   his   lively   little 
neighbour  still  held  in  absolute  possession. 

Mrs.  Mount  did  not  come  out  much;  but  there  was  a 
deferential  manner  in  the  bearing  of  the  men  toward  her, 
which  those  haughty  creatures  accord  not  save  to  clever 
women;  and  she  contrived  to  hold  the  talk  with  three  or 
four  at  the  head  of  the  table  while  she  still  had  passages 
aside  with  Eichard. 

The  port  and  claret  went  very  well  after  the  champagne. 
The  ladies  here  did  not  ignominiously  surrender  the  field 
to  the  gentlemen;  they  maintained  their  position  with 
honour.  Silver  was  seen  far  out  on  Thames.  The  wine 
ebbed,  and  the  laughter.  Sentiment  and  cigars  took  up 
the  wondrous  tale. 

"Oh,  what  a  lovely  night !"  said  the  ladies,  looking  above. 

"Charming,"  said  the  gentlemen,  looking  below. 

The  faint-smelling  cool  Autumn  air  was  pleasant  after 
the  feast.    Fragrant  weeds  burned  bright  about  the  garden. 

"We  are  split  into  couples,"  said  Adrian  to  Richard, 
who  was  standing  alone,  eying  the  landscape.  "  'Tis  the 
influence  of  the  moon!  Apparently  we  are  in  Cyprus. 
How  has  my  son  enjoyed  himself?  How  likes  he  the 
society  of  Aspasia?    I  feel  like  a  wise  Greek  to-night." 

Adrian  was  jolly,  and  rolled  comfortably  as  he  talked. 
Eipton  had  been  carried  off  by  the  sentimental  bosom. 
He  came  up  to  them  and  whispered:  "By  Jove,  Eicky! 
do  you  know  what  sort  of  women  these  are?" 

Eichard  said  he  thought  them  a  nice  sort. 

"Puritan!"  exclaimed  Adrian,  slapping  Eipton  on  the 
back.  "Why  didn't  you  get  tipsy,  sir?  _  Don't  you  ever 
intoxicate  yourself  except  at  lawful  marriages  ?  Eeveal  to 
us  what  you  have  done  with  the  portly  dame?" 

Eipton  endured  his  bantering  that  he  might  hang  about 
Eichard,  and  watch  over  him.  He  was  jealous  of  his 
innocent  Beauty's  husband  being  in  proximity  with  such 
women.     Murmuring  couples  passed  them  to  and  fro. 

"By  Jove,  Eicky!"  Eipton  favoured  his  friend  with 
another  hard  whisper,  "there's  a  woman  smoking!" 

"And  why  not,  O  Eiptonus?"  said  Adrian.  "Art  un- 
aware that  woman  cosmopolitan  is  woman  consummate? 
and  dost  grumble  to  pay  the  small  price  for  the  splendid 
gem  ?" 


334      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"Well,  I  don't  like  women  to  smoke,"  said  plain  Ripton. 

"Why  mayn't  they  do  what  men  do?"  the  hero  cried 
impetuously.  "I  hate  that  contemptible  narrow-minded- 
ness. It's  that  makes  the  ruin  and  horrors  I  see.  Why 
mayn't  they  do  what  men  do?  I  like  the  women  who 
are  brave  enough  not  to  be  hypocrites.  By  heaven!  if 
these  women  are  bad,  I  like  them  better  than  a  set  of 
hypocritical  creatures  who  are  all  show,  and  deceive  you 
in  the  end." 

"Bravo!"  shouted  Adrian.  "There  speaks  the  regener- 
ator." 

Ripton,  as  usual,  was  crushed  by  his  leader.  He  had 
no  argument.  He  still  thought  women  ought  not  to 
smoke;  and  he  thought  of  one  far  away,  lonely  by  the 
sea,  who  was  perfect  without  being  cosmopolitan. 

The  Pilgrim's  Scrip  remarks  that:  "Young  men  take 
joy  in  nothing  so  much  as  the  thinking  women  Angels: 
and  nothing  sours  men  of  experience  more  than  knowing 
that  all  are  not  quite  so." 

The  Aphorist  would  have  pardoned  Ripton  Thompson 
his  first  Random  extravagance,  had  he  perceived  the 
simple  warm-hearted  worship  of  feminine  goodness  Rich- 
ard's young  bride  had  inspired  in  the  breast  of  the  youth. 
It  might  possibly  have  taught  him  to  put  deeper  trust  in 
our  nature. 

Ripton  thought  of  her,  and  had  a  feeling  of  sadness. 
He  wandered  about  the  grounds  by  himself,  went  through 
an  open  postern,  and  threw  himself  down  among  some 
bushes  on  the  slope  of  the  hill.  Lying  there,  and  medi- 
tating, he  became  aware  of  voices  conversing. 

"What  does  he  want?"  said  a  woman's  voice.  "It's 
another  of  his  villanies,  I  know.  Upon  my  honour,  Bray- 
der,  when  I  think  of  what  I  have  to  reproach  him  for.  I 
think  I  must  go  mad,  or  kill  him." 

"Tragic!"  said  the  Hon.  Peter.  "Haven't  you  revenged 
yourself,  Bella,  pretty  often?  Best  deal  openly.  This 
is  a  commercial  transaction.  Von  ask  for  money,  and 
you  are  to  have  it — on  the  conditions:  double  the  sum, 
and  debts  paid." 

"He  applies  to  me!" 

"You  know,  my  dear  Bella,  it  has  long  been  all  up 
between  you.     1  think  .Mount  has  behaved  very  well,  eon- 


A  DINNER-PARTY  AT  RICHMOND        335 

sidering  all  he  knows.  He's  not  easily  hoodwinked,  you 
know.  He  resigns  himself  to  his  fate,  and  follows  other 
game." 

"Then  the  condition  is,  that  I  am  to  seduce  this  young 
man  ?" 

"My  dear  Bella!  you  strike  your  bird  like  a  hawk.  I 
didn't  say  seduce.  Hold  him  in — play  with  him.  Amuse 
him." 

"I  don't  understand  half-measures." 

"Women  seldom  do." 

"How  I  hate  you,  Brayder!" 

"I  thank  your  ladyship." 

The  two  walked  farther.  Ripton  had  heard  some  little 
of  the  colloquy.  He  left  the  spot  in  a  serious  mood,  ap- 
prehensive of  something  dark  to  the  people  he  loved, 
though  he  had  no  idea  of  what  the  Hon.  Peter's  stipulation 
involved. 

On  the  voyage  back  to  town,  Richard  was  again  selected 
to  sit  by  Mrs.  Mount.  Brayder  and  Adrian  started  the 
jokes.  The  pair  of  parasites  got  on  extremely  well  to- 
gether. Soft  fell  the  plash  of  the  oars;  softly  the  moon- 
light curled  around  them ;  softly  the  banks  glided  by.  The 
ladies  were  in  a  state  of  high  sentiment.  They  sang 
without  request.  All  deemed  the  British  ballad-monger  an 
appropriate  interpreter  of  their  emotions.  After  good 
wine,  and  plenty  thereof,  fair  throats  will  make  men  of 
taste  swallow  that  remarkable  composer.  Eyes,  lips, 
hearts;  darts  and  smarts  and  sighs;  beauty,  duty;  bosom, 
blossom ;  false  one,  farewell !  To  this  pathetic  strain 
they  melted.  Mrs.  Mount,  though  strongly  requested, 
declined  to  sing.  She  preserved  her  state.  Under  the 
tall  aspens  of  Brentford-ait,  and  on  they  swept,  the  white 
moon  in  their  wake.  Richard's  hand  lay  open  by  his  side. 
Mrs.  Mount's  little  white  hand  by  misadventure  fell  into 
it.  It  was  not  pressed,  or  soothed  for  its  fall,  or  made 
intimate  with  eloquent  fingers.  It  lay  there  like  a  bit  of 
snow  on  the  cold  ground.  A  yellow  leaf  wavering  down 
from  the  aspens  struck  Richard's  cheek,  and  he  drew  away 
the  very  hand  to  throw  back  his  hair  and  smooth  his  face, 
and  then  folded  his  arms,  unconscious  of  offence.  He 
was  thinking  ambitiously  of  his  life:  his  blood  was  un- 
troubled, his  brain  calmly  working. 


336      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"Which  is  the  more  perilous?"  is  a  problem  put  by  the 
Pilgrim:  "To  meet  the  temptings  of  Eve,  or  to  pique 
her?" 

Mrs.  Mount  stared  at  the  young  man  as  at  a  curiosity, 
and  turned  to  flirt  with  one  of  her  Court.  The  Guardsmen 
were  mostly  sentimental.  One  or  two  rattled,  and  one 
was  such  a  good-humoured  fellow  that  Adrian  could  not 
make  him  ridiculous.  The  others  seemed  to  give  them- 
selves up  to  a  silent  waxing  in  length  of  limb.  However 
far  they  sat  removed,  everybody  was  entangled  in  their 
legs.  Pursuing  his  studies,  Adrian  came  to  the  conclusion, 
that  the  same  close  intellectual  and  moral  affinity  which 
he  had  discovered  to  exist  between  our  nobility  and  our 
yeomanry,  is  to  be  observed  between  the  Guardsman  class, 
and  that  of  the  corps  de  ballet:  they  both  live  by  the 
strength  of  their  legs,  where  also  their  wits,  if  they  do 
not  altogether  reside  there,  are  principally  developed: 
both  are  volage;  wine,  tobacco,  and  the  moon,  influence 
both  alike;  and  admitting  the  one  marked  difference  that 
does  exist,  it  is,  after  all,  pretty  nearly  the  same  thing  to 
be  coquetting  and  sinning  on  two  legs  as  on  the  point  of 
a  toe. 

A  long  Guardsman  with  a  deep  bass  voice  sang  a  doleful 
song  about  the  twining  tendrils  of  the  heart  ruthlessly 
torn,  but  required  urgent  persuasions  and  heavy  trumpet- 
ing of  his  lungs  to  get  to  the  end:  before  he  had  ac- 
complished it,  Adrian  had  contrived  to  raise  a  laugh  in 
his  neighbourhood,  so  that  the  company  was  divided,  and 
the  camp  split:  jollity  returned  to  one-half,  while  senti- 
ment held  the  other.  Ripton,  blotted  behind  the  bosom, 
was  only  lucky  in  securing  a  higher  degree  of  heat  than 
was  possible  for  the  rest.  "Are  you  cold  ?"  she  would  ask, 
smiling  charitably. 

"I  am,"  said  the  mignonne,  as  if  to  excuse  her  conduct. 

"You  always  appear  to  be,"  the  fat  one  sniffed  and 
snapped. 

"Won't  you  warm  two,  Mrs.  Mortimer?"  said  the 
naughty  little  woman. 

Disdain  prevented  any  further  notice  of  her.  Those 
familiar  with  the  ladies  enjoyed  their  sparring,  which  was 
frequent.  The  mignonne  was  heard  to  whisper:  "That 
poor  fellow  will  certainly  be  stewed." 


A  DINNER-PARTY  AT  RICHMOND        337 

Very  prettily  the  ladies  took  and  gave  warmth,  for  the 
air  on  the  water  was  chill  and  misty.  Adrian  had  beside 
him  the  demure  one  who  had  stopped  the  circulation  of 
his  anecdote.  She  in  nowise  objected  to  the  fair  exchange, 
but  said  "Hush !"  betweenwhiles. 

Past  Kew  and  Hammersmith,  on  the  cool  smooth  water ; 
across  Putney  reach;  through  Battersea  bridge;  and  the 
City  grew  around  them,  and  the  shadows  of  great  mill- 
factories  slept  athwart  the  moonlight. 

All  the  ladies  prattled  sweetly  of  a  charming  day  when 
they  alighted  on  land.  Several  cavalie'rs  crushed  for  the 
honour  of  conducting  Mrs.  Mount  to  her  home. 

"My  brougham's  here;  I  shall  go  alone,"  said  Mrs. 
Mount.     ''Some  one  arrange  my  shawL" 

She  turned  her  back  to  Richard,  who  had  a  view  of  a 
delicate  neck  as  he  manipulated  with  the  bearing  of  a 
mailed  knight. 

"Which  way  are  you  going?"  she  asked  carelessly,  and, 
to  his  reply  as  to  the  direction,  said :  "Then  I  can  give  you 
a  lift,"  and  she  took  his  arm  with  a  matter-of-course  air, 
and  walked  up  the  stairs  with  him. 

Ripton  saw  what  had  happened.  He  was  going  to  fol- 
low: the  portly  dame  retained  him,  and  desired  him  to 
get  her  a  cab. 

"Oh,  you  happy  fellow!"  said  the  bright-eyed  mignonne, 
passing  by. 

Ripton  procured  the  cab,  and  stuffed  it  full  without 
having  to  get  into  it  himself. 

"Try  and  let  him  come  in  too?"  said  the  persecuting 
creature,  again  passing. 

"Take  liberties  with  your  men — you  shan't  with  me," 
retorted  the  angry  bosom,  and  drove  off. 

"So  she's  been  and  gone  and  run  away  and  left  him 
after  all  his  trouble !"  cried  the  pert  little  thing,  peering 
into  Ripton's  eyes.  "Now  you'll  never  be  so  foolish  as  to 
pin  your  faith  to  fat  women  again.  There!  he  shall  be 
made  happy  another  time."  She  gave  his  nose  a  comical 
tap,  and  tripped  away  with  her  possessor. 

Ripton  rather  forgot  his  friend  for  some  minutes :  Ran- 
dom thoughts  laid  hold  of  him.  Cabs  and  carriages  rattled 
past.  He  was  sure  he  had  been  among  members  of  the 
nobility  that  day,  though  when  they  went  by  him  now 


338      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

they  only  recognized  him  with  an  effort  of  the  eyelids. 
He  began  to  think  of  the  day  with  exultation,  as  an  event. 
Recollections  of  the  mignonne  were  captivating.  "Blue 
eyes — just  what  I  like!  And  such  a  little  impudent  nose, 
and  red  lips,  pouting — the  very  thing  I  like!  And  her 
hair!1  darkish,  I  think — say  brown.  And  so  saucy,  and 
light  on  her  feet.  And  kind  she  is,  or  she  wouldn't  have 
talked  to  me  like  that."  Thus,  with  a  groaning  soul,  he 
pictured  her.  His  reason  voluntarily  consigned  her  to 
the  aristocracy  as  a  natural  appanage:  but  he  did  amor- 
ously wish  that  Fortune  had  made  a  lord  of  him. 

Then  his  mind  reverted  to  Mrs.  Mount,  and  the  strange 
bits  of  the  conversation  he  had  heard  on  the  hill.  He  was 
not  one  to  suspect  anybody  positively.  He  was  timid  of 
fixing  a  suspicion.  It  hovered  indefinitely,  and  clouded 
people,  without  stirring  him  to  any  resolve.  Still  the  at- 
tentions of  the  lady  toward  Richard  were  queer.  lie  en- 
deavoured to  imagine  they  were  in  the  nature  of  things, 
because  Richard  was  so  handsome  that  any  woman  must 
take  to  him.  "But  he's  married,"  said  Ripton,  "and  he 
mustn't  go  near  these  people  if  he's  married."  Not  a 
high  morality,  perhaps:  better  than  none  at  all:  better  for 
the  world  were  it  practised  more.  He  thought  of  Richard 
along  with  that  sparkling  dame,  alone  with  her.  The 
adorable  beauty  of  his  dear  bride,  her  pure  heavenly  face, 
swam  before  him.  Thinking  of  her,  he  lost  sight  of  the 
mignonne  who  had  made  him  giddy. 

He  walked  to  Richard's  hotel,  and  up  and  down  the 
street  there,  hoping  every  minute  to  hear  his  step;  some- 
times fancying  he  might  have  returned  and  gone  to  bed. 
Two  o'clock  struck.  Ripton  could  not  go  away.  He  was 
sure  he  should  not  sleep  if  he  did.  At  last  the  cold  sent 
him  homeward,  and  leaving  the  street,  on  the  moonlight 
side  of  Piccadilly  he  mot  his  friend  patrolling  with  his 
head  up  and  that  swing  of  the  feet  proper  to  men  who  are 
chanting  verses. 

"Old  Rip!"  cried  Richard,  cheerily.  "What  on  earth 
are  you  doing  here  at  this  hour  of  the  morning?" 

Ripton  muttered  of  his  pleasure  at  meeting  him.  "I 
wanted  to  shake  your  hand  before  1  went  home." 

Richard  smiled  on  him  in  an  amused  kindly  way. 
"That  all  \    You  may  shake  my  hand  any  day,  like  a  true 


A  DINNER-PARTY  AT  RICHMOND        339 

man  as  you  are,  old  Rip !  I've  been  speaking  about  you. 
Do  you  know,  that — Mrs.  Mount — never  saw  you  all  the 
time  at  Richmond,  or  in  the  boat !" 

"Oh!"  Ripton  said,  well  assured  that  he  was  a  dwarf: 
"you  saw  her  safe  home?" 

"Yes.  I've  been  there  for  the  last  couple  of  hours — 
talking.  She  talks  capitally :  she's  wonderfully  clever. 
She's  very  like  a  man,  only  much  nicer.    I  like  her." 

"But,  Richard,  excuse  me — I'm  sure  I  don't  mean  to 
offend  you — but  now  you're  married  .  .  .  perhaps  you 
couldn't  help  seeing  her  home,  but  I  think  you  really  in- 
deed oughtn't  to  have  gone  upstairs." 

Ripton  delivered  this  opinion  with  a  modest  impressive- 
ness. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Richard.  "You  don't  sup- 
pose I  care  for  any  woman  but  my  little  darling  down 
there."    He  laughed. 

"No;  of  course  not.  That's  absurd.  What  I  mean  is, 
that  people  perhaps  will — you  know,  they  do — they  say 
all  manner  of  things,  and  that  makes  unhappiness,  and 
.  .  .  I  do  wish  you  were  going  home  to-morrow,  Ricky.  I 
mean,  to  your  dear  wife."  Ripton  blushed  and  looked 
away  as  he  spoke. 

The  hero  gave  one  of  his  scornful  glances.  "So  you're 
anxious  about  my  reputation.  I  hate  that  way  of  looking 
on  women.  Because  they  have  been  once  misled — look 
how  much  weaker  they  are! — because  the  world  has  given 
them  an  ill  fame,  you  would  treat  them  as  contagious, 
and  keep  away  from  them  for  the  sake  of  your  character !" 

"It  would  be  different  with  me,"  quoth  Ripton. 

"How?"  asked  the  hero. 

"Because  I'm  worse  than  you,"  was  all  the  logical  ex- 
planation Ripton  was  capable  of. 

"I  do  hope  you  will  go  home  soon,"  he  added. 

"Yes,"  said  Richard,  "and  I,  so  do  I  hope  so.  But  I've 
work  to  do  now.  I  dare  not,  I  cannot,  leave  it.  Lucy 
would  be  the  last  to  ask  me; — you  saw  her  letter  yester- 
day. Now  listen  to  me,  Rip.  I  want  to  make  you  be  just 
to  women." 

Then  he  read  Ripton  a  lecture  on  erring  women,  speak- 
ing of  them  as  if  he  had  known  them  and  studied  them 
■f-or  years.     Clever,  beautiful,  but  betrayed  by  love,  it  was 


:u<>      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

the  first  duty  of  all  true  men  to  cherish  and  redeem  them. 
"We  turn  them  into  curses,  Rip;  these  divine  creatures." 
And  the  world  su Herod  for  it.  That — that  was  the  root 
of  all  the  evil  in  the  world! 

"I  don't  fuel  anger  or  horror  at  these  poor  women,  Rip! 
It's  strange.  I  knew  what  they  were  when  we  came  homo 
in  the  boat.  But  I  do — it  tears  my  heart  to  see  a  young 
girl  given  over  to  an  old  man — a  man  she  doesn't  love. 
That's  shame! — Don't  speak  of  it." 

Forgetting  to  contest  the  premiss,  that  all  betrayed 
women  are  betrayed  by  love,  Ripton  was  quite  silenced. 
He,  like  most  young  men,  had  pondered  somewhat  on  this 
matter,  and  was  inclined  to  be  sentimental  when  he  was 
not  hungry.  They  walked  in  the  moonlight  by  the  railings 
of  the  park.  Richard  harangued  at  leisure,  while  Ripton's 
teeth  chattered.  Chivalry  might  be  dead,  but  still  there 
was  something  to  do,  went  the  strain.  The  lady  of  the 
day  had  not  been  thrown  in  the  hero's  path  without  an 
object,  he  kaid;  and  he  was  sadly  right  there.  He  did  not 
express  the  thing  clearly;  nevertheless  Ripton  understood 
him  to  mean,  he  intended  to  rescue  that  lady  from  further 
transgressions,  and  show  a  certain  scorn  of  the  world. 
That  lady,  and  then  other  ladies  unknown,  were  to  be 
rescued.  Ripton  was  to  help.  He  and  Ripton  were  to  be 
the  knights  of  this  enterprise.  When  appealed  to,  Ripton 
acquiesced,  and  shivered.  Not  only  were  they  to  be 
knights,  they  would  have  to  be  Titans,  for  the  powers  of 
the  world,  the  spurious  ruling  Social  Gods,  would  have  to 
be  defied  and  overthrown.  And  Titan  number  one  flung 
up  his  handsome  bold  face  as  if  to  challenge  base  Jove  on 
the  spot;  and  Titan  number  two  strained  the  upper  but- 
ton of  his  coat  to  meet  across  his  pocketdiandkerchief  on 
his  chest,  and  warmed  his  fingers  under  his  coat-tails. 
The  moon  had  fallen  from  her  high  seat  and  was  in  the 
mists  of  the  West,  when  he  was  allowed  to  seek  his 
blankets,  and  the  cold  acting  on  his  friend's  eloquence 
made  Ripton's  flesh  very  contrite.  The  poor  fellow  had 
thinner  blood  than  the  hero;  but  his  heart  was  good.  By 
the  time  he  had  got  a  little  warmth  about  him,  his  heart 
gratefully  strove  to  encourage  him  in  the  conception  of 
becoming  a  knight  and  a  Titan;  and  so  striving  Ripton 
fell  asleep  and  dreamed. 


MRS.  BERRY  ON  MATRIMONY  341 

CHAPTER  XXXVII 
MRS.   BERRY   ON   MATRIMONY 

Behold  the  hero  embarked  in  the  redemption  of  an 
erring  beautiful  woman. 

"Alas!"  writes  the  Pilgrim  at  this  very  time  to  Lady 
Blandish,  "I  cannot  get  that  legend  of  the  Serpent  from 
me,  the  more  I  think.  Has  he  not  caught  you,  and  ranked 
you  foremost  in  his  legions?  For  see:  till  you  were  fash- 
ioned, the  fruits  hung  immobile  on  the  boughs.  They 
swayed  before  us,  glistening  and  cold.  The  hand  must  be 
eager  that  plucked  them.  They  did  not  come  down  to  us, 
and  smile,  and  speak  our  language,  and  read  our  thoughts, 
and  know  when  to  fly,  when  to  follow !  how  surely  to 
have  us! 

"Do  but  mark  one  of  you  standing  openly  in  the  track 
of  the  Serpent.  What  shall  be  done  with  her?  I  fear  the 
world  is  wiser  than  its  judges !  Turn  from  her,  says  the 
world.  By  day  the  sons  of  the  world  do.  It  darkens,  and 
they  dance  together  downward.  Then  comes  there  one  of 
the  world's  elect  who  deems  old  counsel  devilish ;  indiffer- 
ence to  the  end  of  evil  worse  than  its  pursuit.  He  comes 
to  reclaim  her.  From  deepest  bane  will  he  bring  her  back 
to  highest  blessing.  Is  not  that  a  bait  already  ?  Poor  fish  ! 
'tis  wondrous  flattering.  The  Serpent  has  slimed  her  so 
to  secure  him!  With  slow  weary  steps  he  draws  her  into 
light :  she  clings  to  him ;  she  is  human ;  part  of  his  work, 
and  he  loves  it.  As  they  mount  upward,  he  looks  on  her 
more,  while  she,  it  may  be,  looks  above.  What  has  touched 
him?  What  has  passed  out  of  her,  and  into  him?  The 
Serpent  laughs  below.  At  the  gateways  of  the  Sun  they 
fall  together!" 

This  alliterative  production  was  written  without  any 
sense  of  the  peril  that  makes  prophecy. 

It  suited  Sir  Austin  to  write  thus.  It  was  a  channel  to 
his  acrimony  moderated  through  his  philosophy.    The  let- 


342      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

ter  was  a  reply  to  a  vehement  entreaty  from  Lady  Blan- 
dish for  him  to  come  up  to  Richard  and  forgive  him 
thoroughly:  Richard's  name  was  not  mentioned  in  it. 

"He  tries  to  be  more  than  he  is,"  thought  the  lady: 
and  she  began  insensibly  to  conceive  him  less  than  he 
was. 

The  baronet  was  conscious  of  a  certain  false  gratifica- 
tion in  his  son's  apparent  obedience  to  his  wishes  and 
complete  submission;  a  gratification  he  chose  to  accept  as 
his  due,  without  dissecting  or  accounting  for  it.  The  in- 
telligence reiterating  that  Richard  waited,  and  still 
waited;  Richard's  letters,  and  more  his  dumb  abiding  and 
practical  penitence;  vindicated  humanity  sufficiently  to 
stop  the  course  of  virulent  aphorisms.  He  could  speak,  we 
have  seen,  in  sorrow  for  this  frail  nature  of  ours,  that  he 
had  once  stood  forth  to  champion.  "But  how  long  will 
this  last?"  he  demanded,  with  the  air  of  Hippias.  He  did 
not  reflect  how  long  it  had  lasted.  Indeed,  his  indigestion 
of  wrath  had  made  of  him  a  moral  Dyspepsy. 

It  was  not  mere  obedience  that  held  Richard  from  the 
arms  of  his  young  wife:  nor  was  it  this  new  knightly 
enterprise  he  had  presumed  to  undertake.  Hero  as  he 
was,  a  youth,  open  to  the  insane  promptings  of  hot  blood, 
he  was  not  a  fool.  There  had  been  talk  between  him  and 
Mrs.  Doria  of  his  mother.  Now  that  he  had  broken  from 
his  father,  his  heart  spoke  for  her.  She  lived,  he  knew: 
he  knew  no  more.  Words  painfully  hovering  along  the 
borders  of  plain  speech  had  been  communicated  to  him, 
filling  him  with  moody  imaginings.  If  he  thought  of  her, 
the  red  was  on  his  face,  though  he  could  not  have  said 
why.  But  now,  after  canvassing  the  conduct  of  his 
father,  and  throwing  him  aside  as  a  terrible  riddle,  he 
asked  Mrs.  Doria  to  tell  him  of  his  other  parent.  As 
softly  as  she  could  she  told  the  story.  To  her  the  shame 
was  past:  she  could  weep  for  the  poor  lady.  Richard 
dropped  no  tears.  Disgrace  of  this  kind  is  always  present 
to  a  son,  and,  educated  as  he  had  been,  these  tidings  were 
a  vivid  fire  in  his  brain.  lie  resolved  to  hunt  her  out, 
and  take  her  from  the  man.  Here  was  work  set  to  his 
hand.  All  her  dear  husband  did  was  right  to  Lucy.  She 
encouraged  him  to  stay  for  that  purpose,  thinking  it  also 
served  another.     There  was  Tom  Bakewell  to  watch  over 


MRS.  BERRY  ON  MATRIMONY  343 

Lucy:  there  was  work  for  him  to  do.  Whether  it  would 
please  his  father  he  did  not  stop  to  consider.  As  to  the 
justice  of  the  act,  let  us  say  nothing. 

On  Ripton  devolved  the  humbler  task  of  grubbing  for 
Sandoe's  place  of  residence;  and  as  he  was  unacquainted 
with  the  name  by  which  the  poet  now  went  in  private,  his 
endeavours  were  not  immediately  successful.  The  friends 
met  in  the  evening  at  Lady  Blandish's  town-house,  or  at 
the  Foreys',  where  Mrs.  Doria  procured  the  reverer  of  the 
Royal  Martyr,  and  staunch  conservative,  a  favourable 
reception.  Pity,  deep  pity  for  Richard's  conduct  Ripton 
saw  breathing  out  of  Mrs.  Doria.  Algernon  Feverel 
treated  his  nephew  with  a  sort  of  rough  commiseration,  as 
a  young  fellow  who  had  run  off  the  road. 

Pity  was  in  Lady  Blandish's  eyes,  though  for  a  different 
cause.  She  doubted  if  she  did  well  in  seconding  his 
father's  unwise  scheme — supposing  him  to  have  a  scheme. 
She  saw  the  young  husband  encompassed  by  dangers  at  a 
critical  time.  Not  a  word  of  Mrs.  Mount  had  been 
breathed  to  her,  but  the  lady  had  some  knowledge  of  life. 
She  touched  on  delicate  verges  to  the  baronet  in  her  let- 
ters, and  he  understood  her  well  enough.  ''If  he  loves 
this  person  to  whom  he  has  bound  himself,  what  fear  for 
him  ?  Or  are  you  coming  to  think  it  something  that  bears 
the  name  of  love  because  we  have  to  veil  the  rightful 
appellation?"  So  he  responded,  remote  among  the  moun- 
tains. She  tried  very  hard  to  speak  plainly.  Finally  he 
came  to  say,  that  he  denied  himself  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
his  son  specially,  that  he  for  a  time  might  be  put  to  the 
test  the  lady  seemed  to  dread.  This  was  almost  too  much 
for  Lady  Blandish.  Love's  charity  boy  so  loftily  serene 
now  that  she  saw  him  half  denuded — a  thing  of  shanks 
and  wrists — was  a  trial  for  her  true  heart. 

Going  home  at  night  Richard  would  laugh  at  the  faces 
made  about  his  marriage.  "We'll  carry  the  day,  Rip,  my 
Lucy  and  I !  or  I'll  do  it  alone — what  there  is  to  do."  He 
slightly  adverted  to  a  natural  want  of  courage  in  women, 
which  Ripton  took  to  indicate  that  his  Beauty  was  de- 
ficient in  that  quality.  Up  leapt  the  Old  Dog;  "I'm  sure 
there  never  was  a  braver  creature  upon  earth,  Richard! 
She's  as  brave  as  she's  lovely,  I'll  swear  she  is !  Look  how 
she  behaved  that  day!     How  her  voice  sounded!     She 


344      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

was  trembling  .  .  .  Brave?  She'd  follow  you  into  battle 
Richard  I" 

And  Richard  rejoined:  "Talk  on,  dear  old  Rip!  She's 
my  darling  love,  whatever  she  is!  And  she  is  gloriously 
lovely.  No  eyes  are  like  hers.  I'll  go  down  to-morrow 
morning  the  first  thing." 

Ripton  only  wondered  the  husband  of  such  a  treasure 
could  remain  apart  from  it.  So  thought  Richard  for  a 
space. 

"But  if  I  go,  Rip,"  he  said  despondently,  "if  I  go  for  a 
day  even  I  shall  have  undone  all  my  work  with  my  father. 
She  says  it  herself — you  saw  it  in  her  last  letter." 

"Yes,"  Ripton  assented,  and  the  words  "Please  remem- 
ber me  to  dear  Air.  Thompson,"  fluttered  about  the  Old 
Dog's  heart. 

It  came  to  pass  that  Mrs.  Berry,  having  certain  business 
that  led  her  through  Kensington  Gardens,  spied  a  figure 
that  she  had  once  dandled  in  long  clothes,  and  helped  make 
a  man  of,  if  ever  woman  did.  He  was  walking  under  the 
trees  beside  a  lady,  talking  to  her,  not  indifferently.  The 
gentleman  was  her  bridegroom  and  her  babe.  "I  know 
his  back,"  said  Mrs.  Berry,  as  if  she  had  branded  a  mark 
on  it  in  infancy.  But  the  lady  was  not  her  bride.  Mrs. 
Berry  diverged  from  the  path,  and  got  before  them  on  the 
left  flank ;  she  stared,  retreated,  and  came  round  upon  the 
right.  There  was  that  in  the  lady's  face  which  Mrs.  Berry 
did  not  like.  Her  innermost  question  was,  why  he  was 
not  walking  with  his  own  wife?  She  stopped  in  front  of 
them.  They  broke,  and  passed  about  her.  The  lady  made 
a  laughing  remark  to  him,  whereat  he  turned  to  look,  and 
Mrs.  Berry  bobbed.  She  had  to  bob  a  second  time,  and 
then  he  remembered  the  worthy  creature,  and  hailed  her 
Penelope,  shaking  her  hand  so  that  he  put  her  in  counte- 
nance again.  Mrs.  Berry  was  extremely  agitated.  He 
dismissed  her,  promising  to  call  upon  her  in  the  evening. 
She  heard  the  lady  slip  out  something  from  a  side  of  her 
lip,  and  they  both  laughed  as  she  toddled  off  to  a  shelter- 
ing tree  to  wipe  a  corner  of  each  eye.  "I  don't  like  the 
looks  of  that  woman,"  she  said,  and  repeated  it  resolutely. 

"Why  doesn't  he  walk  arm-in-arm  with  her?"  was  her 
next  inquiry.     "Where's  his  wife?"  succeeded  it.     After 


MRS.  BERRY  ON  MATRIMONY  345 

many  interrogations  of  the  sort,  she  arrived  at  naming 
the  lady  a  bold-faced  thing;  adding  subsequently,  brazen. 
The  lady  had  apparently  shown  Mrs.  Berry  that  she  wished 
to  get  rid  of  her,  and  had  checked  the  outpouring  of  her 
emotions  on  the  breast  of  her  babe.  "I  know  a  lady  when 
I  see  one,"  said  Mrs.  Berry.  "I  haven't  lived  with  'em 
for  nothing;  and  if  she's  a  lady  bred  and  born,  I  wasn't 
married  in  the  church  alive." 

Then,  if  not  a  lady,  what  was  she?  Mrs.  Berry  desired 
to  know.  "She's  imitation  lady,  I'm  sure  she  is!"  Berry 
vowed.     "I  say  she  don't  look  proper." 

Establishing  the  lady  to  be  a  spurious  article,  however, 
what  was  one  to  think  of  a  married  man  in  company  with 
such?  "Oh  no!  it  ain't  that!"  Mrs.  Berry  returned  im- 
mediately on  the  charitable  tack.  "Belike  it's  some  one  of 
his  acquaintance  've  married  her  for  her  looks,  and  he've 
just  met  her.  .  .  .  Why  it'd  be  as  bad  as  my  Berry !"  the 
relinquished  spouse  of  Berry  ejaculated,  in  horror  at  the 
idea  of  a  second  man  being  so  monstrous  in  wickedness. 
"Just  coupled,  too!"  Mrs.  Berry  groaned  on  the  sus- 
picious side  of  the  debate.  "And  such  a  sweet  young 
thing  for  his  wife!  But  no,  I'll  never  believe  it.  Not  if 
he  tell  me  so  himself!  And  men  don't  do  that,"  she 
whimpered. 

Women  are  swift  at  coming  to  conclusions  in  these  mat- 
ters; soft  women  exceedingly  swift:  and  soft  women  who 
have  been  betrayed  are  rapid  beyond  measure.  Mrs. 
Berry  had  not  cogitated  long  ere  she  pronounced  distinctly 
and  without  a  shadow  of  dubiosity:  "My  opinion  is — 
married  or  not  married,  and  wheresomever  he  pick  her  up 
— she's  nothin'  more  nor  less  than  a  Bella  Donna !"  as 
which  poisonous  plant  she  forthwith  registered  the  lady 
in  the  botanical  note-book  of  her  brain.  It  would  have 
astonished  Mrs.  Mount  to  have  heard  her  person  so  accu- 
rately hit  off  at  a  glance. 

In  the  evening  Richard  made  good  his  promise,  accom- 
panied by  Ripton.  Mrs.  Berry  opened  the  door  to  them. 
She  could  not  wait  to  get  him  into  the  parlour.  "You're 
my  own  blessed  babe;  and  I'm  as  good  as  your  mother, — 
though  I  didn't  suck  ye,  bein'  a  maid !"  she  cried,  falling 
into  his  arms,  while  Richard  did  his  best  to  support  the 
unexpected  burden.     Then  reproaching  him  tenderly  for 


346      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

his  guile — at  mention  of  which  Ripton  chuckled,  deeming 
it  his  own  most  honourable  portion  of  the  plot — Mrs. 
Berry  led  them  into  the  parlour,  and  revealed  to  Richard 
who  she  was,  and  how  she  had  tossed  him,  and  hugged 
him,  and  kissed  him  all  over,  when  he  was  only  that  big — 
showing  him  her  stumpy  fat  arm.  "I  kissed  ye  from  head 
to  tail,  I  did,"  said  Mrs.  Berry,  "and  you  needn't  be 
ashamed  of  it.  It's  be  hoped  you'll  never  have  nothin' 
worse  come  t'ye,  my  dear  I" 

Richard  assured  her  he  was  not  a  bit  ashamed,  but 
warned  her  that  she  must  not  do  it  now,  Mrs.  Berry  ad- 
mitting it  was  out  of  the  question  now,  and  now  that  he 
had  a  wife,  moreover.  The  young  men  laughed,  and  Rip- 
ton  laughing  over-loudly  drew  on  himself  Mrs.  Berry's 
attention:  "But  that  Mr.  Thompson  there — however  he 
can  look  me  in  the  face  after  his  inn'cence!  helping  blind- 
fold an  old  woman! — though  I  ain't  sorry  for  what  I  did — 
that  I'm  free  for  to  say,  and  it's  over,  and  blessed  be  all ! 
Amen !  So  now  where  is  she  and  how  is  she,  Mr.  Richard, 
my  dear — it's  only  cuttin'  off  the  's'  and  you  are  as  you 
was. — Why  didn't  ye  bring  her  with  ye  to  see  her  old 
Berry?" 

Richard  hurriedly  explained  that  Lucy  was  still  in  the 
Isle  of  Wight. 

"Oh!  and  you've  left  her  for  a  day  or  two?"  said  Mrs. 
Berry. 

"Good  God!  I  wish  it  had  been  a  day  or  two,"  cried 
Richard. 

"Ah!  and  how  long  have  it  been?"  asked  Mrs.  Berry, 
her  heart  beginning  to  beat  at  his  manner  of  speaking. 

"Don't  talk  about  it,"  said  Richard. 

"Oh!  you  never  been  dudgeonin'  already?  Oh!  you 
haven't  been  peckin'  at  one  another  yet?"  Mrs.  Berry 
exclaimed. 

Ripton  interposed  to  tell  her  such  fears  were  unfounded. 

"Then  how  long  ha'  you  been  divided?" 

In  a  guilty  voice  Ripton  stammered  "since  September." 

"September!"  breathed  Mrs.  Berry,  counting  on  her 
fingers,  "September,  October,  Nov — two  months  and  more ! 
nigh  three!  A  young  married  husband  away  from  the 
wife  of  his  bosom  nigh  three  months!  Oh  my!  Oh  my! 
what  do  that  mean?" 


MRS.  BEERY  ON  MATRIMONY  347 

"My  father  sent  for  me — I'm  waiting  to  see  him,"  said 
Richard.  A  few  more  words  helped  Mrs.  Berry  to  compre- 
hend the  condition  of  affairs.  Then  Mrs.  Berry  spread 
her  lap,  flattened  out  her  hands,  fixed  her  eyes,  and  spoke. 

"My  dear  young  gentleman ! — I'd  like  to  call  ye  my 
darlin'  babe!  I'm  going  to  speak  as  a  mother  to  ye, 
whether  ye  likes  it  or  no;  and  what  old  Berry  says,  you 
won't  mind,  for  she's  had  ye  when  there  was  no  con- 
ventionals  about  ye,  and  she  has  the  feelin's  of  a  mother 
to  you,  though  humble  her  state.  If  there's  one  that 
know  matrimony  it's  me,  my  dear,  though  Berry  did  give 
me  no  more  but  nine  months  of  it:  and  I've  known  the 
worst  of  matrimony,  which,  if  you  wants  to  be  woful 
wise,  there  it  is  for  ye.  For  what  have  been  my  gain? 
That  man  gave  me  nothin'  but  his  name;  and  Bessy 
Andrews  was  as  good  as  Bessy  Berry,  though  both  is  'Bs/ 
and  says  he,  you  was  'A,'  and  now  you's  'B,'  so  you're  my 
A  B,  he  says,  write  yourself  down  that,  he  says,  the  bad 
man,  with  his  jokes ! — Berry  went  to  service."  Mrs. 
Berry's  softness  came  upon  her.  "So  I  tell  ye,  Berry  went 
to  service.  He  left  the  wife  of  his  bosom  forlorn  and  he 
went  to  service;  because  he  were  al'ays  an  ambitious  man, 
and  wasn't,  so  to  speak,  happy  out  of  his  uniform — which 
was  his  livery — not  even  in  my  arms :  and  he  let  me  know 
it.  He  got  among  them  kitchen  sluts,  which  was  my 
mournin'  ready  made,  and  worse  than  a  widow's  cap  to 
me,  which  is  no  shame  to  wear,  and  some  say  becoming. 
There's  no  man  as  ever  lived  known  better  than  my  Berry 
how  to  show  his  legs  to  advantage,  and  gals  look  at  'em. 
I  don't  wonder  now  that  Berry  was  prostrated.  His 
temptations  was  strong,  and  his  flesh  was  weak.  Then 
what  I  say  is,  that  for  a  young  married  man — be  he 
whomsoever  he  may  be — to  be  separated  from  the  wife 
of  his  bosom — a  young  sweet  thing,  and  he  an  innocent 
young  gentleman ! — so  to  sunder,  in  their  state,  and  be 
kep'  from  each  other,  I  say  it's  as  bad  as  bad  can  be !  For 
what  is  matrimony,  my  dears?  We're  told  it's  a  holy 
Ordnance.  And  why  are  ye  so  comfortable  in  matrimony  ? 
For  that  ye  are  not  a  sinnin'!  And  they  that  severs  ye 
they  tempts  ye  to  stray :  and  you  learn  too  late  the  meanin' 
o'  them  blessin's  of  the  priest — as  it  was  ordained.  Sep- 
arate— what  comes  ?    Fust  it's  like  the  circulation  of  your 


348      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

blood  a-stoppin' — all  goes  wrong.  Then  there's  misunder- 
standings— ye've  both  lost  the  key.  Then,  behold  ye, 
there's  birds  o'  prey  hoverin'  over  each  on  ye,  and  it's 
whieh'll  be  snapped  up  fust.  Then — Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear! 
it  be  like  the  devil  come  into  the  world  again."  Mrs. 
Berry  struck  her  hands  and  moaned.  "A  day  I'll  give  ye: 
I'll  go  so  far  as  a  week :  but  there's  the  outside.  Three 
months  dwellin'  apart!  That's  not  matrimony,  it's  di- 
vorcirf!  what  can  it  be  to  her  but  widowhood?  widowhood 
with  no  cap  to  show  for  it!  And  what  can  it  be  to  you, 
my  dear?  Think!  you  been  a  bachelor  three  months!  and 
a  bachelor  man,''  Mrs.  Berry  shook  her  head  most  dole- 
fully, "he  ain't  a  widow  woman.  I  don't  go  to  compare 
you  to  Berry,  my  dear  young  gentleman.  Some  men's 
hearts  is  vagabonds  born — they  must  go  astray — it's  their 
natur'  to.  But  all  men  are  men,  and  I  know  the  founda- 
tion of  'em,  by  reason  of  my  woe." 

Mrs.  Berry  paused.  Richard  was  humorously  respect- 
ful to  the  sermon.  The  truth  in  the  good  creature's 
address  was  not  to  be  disputed,  or  despised,  notwithstand- 
ing the  inclination  to  laugh  provoked  by  her  quaint  way  of 
putting  it.  Ripton  nodded  encouragingly  at  every  sen- 
tence, for  he  saw  her  drift,  and  wished  to  second  it. 

Seeking  for  an  illustration  of  her  meaning,  Mrs.  Berry 
solemnly  continued :  "We  all  know  what  checked  prespira- 
tion  is."  But  neither  of  the  young  gentlemen  could  resist 
this.     Out  they  burst  in  a  roar  of  laughter. 

"Laugh  away,"  said  Mrs.  Berry.  "I  don't  mind  ye.  I 
say  agin,  we  all  do  know  what  checked  prespiration  is.  It 
fly  to  the  lungs,  it  gives  ye  mortal  inflammation,  and  it 
carries  ye  off.  Then  I  say  checked  matrimony  is  as  bad. 
It  fly  to  the  heart,  and  it  carries  off  the  virtue  that's  in  ye, 
and  you  might  as  well  bo  dead!  Them  that  is  joined  it's 
their  salvation  not  to  separate!  It  don't  so  much  matter 
before  it.  That  Mr.  Thompson  there — if  he  go  astray,  it 
ain't  from  the  blessed  fold.  He  hurt  himself  alone — not 
double,  and  belike  treble,  for  who  can  say  now  what  may 
be?  There's  time  for  it.  I'm  for  holding  back  young 
people  so  that  they  knows  their  minds,  howsomever  they 
rattles  about  their  hearts.  I  ain't  a  speeder  of  matrimony, 
and  good's  my  reason !  but  where  it's  been  done — where 
they're  lawfully  joined,  and  their  bodies  made  one,  I  do 


MES.  BEERY  ON  MATRIMONY  349 

say  this,  that  to  put  division  between  'em  then,  it's  to  make 
wanderin'  comets  of  'em — creatures  without  a  objeck,  and 
no  soul  can  say  what  they's  good  for  but  to  rush  about!" 

Mrs.  Berry  here  took  a  heavy  breath,  as  one  who  has 
said  her  utmost  for  the  time  being. 

"My  dear  old  girl,"  Eichard  went  up  to  her  and,  ap- 
plauding her  on  the  shoulder,  "you're  a  very  wise  old 
woman.  But  you  mustn't  speak  to  me  as  if  I  wanted  to 
stop  here.    I'm  compelled  to.    I  do  it  for  her  good  chiefly." 

"It's  your  father  that's  doin'  it,  my  dear?" 

"Well,  I'm  waiting  his  pleasure." 

"A  pretty  pleasure !  puttin'  a  snake  in  the  nest  of  young 
turtle-doves!    And  why  don't  she  come  up  to  you?" 

"Well,  that  you  must  ask  her.  The  fact  is,  she's  a  little 
timid  girl — she  wants  me  to  see  him  first,  and  when  I've 
made  all  right,  then  she'll  come." 

"A  little  timid  girl !"  cried  Mrs.  Berry.  "Oh,  lor',  how 
she  must  ha'  deceived  ye  to  make  ye  think  that !  Look  at 
that  ring,"  she  held  out  her  finger,  "he's  a  stranger:  he's 
not  my  lawful!  You  know  what  ye  did  to  me,  my  dear. 
Could  1  get  my  own  wedding-ring  back  from  her?  'No!' 
says  she,  firm  as  a  rock,  'he  said,  with  this  ring  I  thee 
wed' — I  think  I  see  her  now,  with  her  pretty  eyes  and 
lovesome  locks — a  darlin'! — And  that  ring  she'd  keep  to, 
come  life,  come  death.  And  she  must  ha'  been  a  rock  for 
me  to  give  in  to  her  in  that.  For  what's  the  consequence  ? 
Here  am  I,"  Mrs.  Berry  smoothed  down  the  back  of  her 
hand  mournfully,  "here  am  I  in  a  strange  ring,  that's  like 
a  strange  man  holdin'  of  me,  and  me  a-wearin'  of  it  just  to 

seem  decent,  and  feelin'  all  over  no  better  than  a  b a 

big — that  nasty  name  I  can't  abide ! — I  tell  you,  my  dear, 
she  ain't  soft,  no! — except  to  the  man  of  her  heart;  and 
the  best  of  women's  too  soft  there — more's  our  sorrow!" 

"Well,  well!"  said  Eichard,  who  thought  he  knew. 

"I  agree  with  you,  Mrs.  Berry,"  Eipton  struck  in,  "Mrs. 
Eichard  would  do  anything  in  the  world  her  husband 
asked  her,  I'm  quite  sure." 

"Bless  you  for  your  good  opinion,  Mr.  Thompson! 
Why,  see  her!  she  ain't  frail  on  her  feet;  she  looks  ye 
straight  in  the  eyes;  she  ain't  one  of  your  hang-down 
misses.     Look  how  she  behaved  at  the  ceremony!" 

"Ah!"  sighed  Eipton. 


350      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"And  if  you'd  ha'  seen  her  when  she  spoke  to  mo  about 
my  ring!  Depend  upon  it,  my  dear  Mr.  Richard,  if  she 
blinded  you  about  the  nerve  she've  got,  it  was  somethin' 
she  thought  she  ought  to  do  for  your  sake,  and  I  wish  I'd 
been  by  to  counsel  her,  poor  blessed  babe! — And  how  much 
longer,  now,  can  ye  stay  divided  from  that  darlin"?" 

Richard  paced  up  and  down. 

"A  father's  will,"  urged  Mrs.  Berry,  "that's  a  son's  law; 
but  he  mustn't  go  again'  the  laws  of  his  nature  to  do  it." 

"Just  be  quiet  at  present — talk  of  other  things,  there's 
a  good  woman,"  said  Richard. 

Mrs.  Berry  meekly  folded  her  arms. 

"How  strange,  now,  our  meetin'  like  this !  meetin'  at  all, 
too!"  she  remarked  contemplatively.  "It's  them  advertise- 
ments! They  brings  people  together  from  the  ends  of  the 
earth,  for  good  or  for  bad.  I  often  say,  there's  more  lucky 
accidents,  or  unlucky  ones,  since  advertisements  was  the 
rule,  than  ever  there  was  before.  They  make  a  number  of 
romances,  depend  upon  it !  Do  you  walk  much  in  the 
Gardens,  my  dear?" 

"Now  and  then,"  said  Richard. 

"Very  pleasant  it  is  there  with  the  fine  folks  and  flowers 
and  titled  people,"  continued  Mrs.  Berry.  "That  was  a 
handsome  woman  vou  was  a-walkin'  beside,  this  mornin'." 

"Very,"  said  Richard. 

"She  was  a  handsome  woman !  or  I  should  say,  is,  for  her 
day  ain't  past,  and  she  know  it.  I  thought  at  first — by  her 
back — it  might  ha'  been  your  aunt,  Mrs.  Forey;  for  she  do 
step  out  well  and  hold  up  her  shoulders:  straight  as  a 
dart  she  be!  But  when  I  come  to  see  her  face — Oh,  dear 
me!  says  I,  this  ain't  one  of  the  family.  They  none  of  'em 
got  such  bold  faces — nor  no  lady  as  I  know  have.  But 
she's  a  fine  woman — that  nobody  can  gainsay." 

Mrs.  Berry  talked  further  of  the  fine  woman.  It  was  a 
liberty  she  took  to  speak  in  this  disrespectful  tone  of  her, 
and  Mrs.  Berry  was  quite  aware  that  she  was  laying  her- 
self open  to  rebuke.  She  had  her  end  in  view.  No  rebuke 
was  uttered,  and  during  her  talk  she  observed  intercourse 
passing  between  the  eyes  of  the  young  men. 

"Look  here,  Penelope,"  Richard  stopped  her  at  last. 
"Will  it,  make  you  comfortable  if  I  tell  you  I'll  obey  the 
laws  of  my  nature  and  go  down  at  the  end  of  the  week?" 


MRS.  BERRY  ON  MATRIMONY  351 

"I'll  thank  the  Lord  of  heaven  if  you  do!"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"Very  well,  then — be  happy — I  will.  Now  listen.  I 
want  you  to  keep  your  rooms  for  me — those  she  had.  I 
expect,  in  a  day  or  two,  to  bring  a  lady  here" 

"A  lady?"  faltered  Mrs.  Berry. 

"Yes.    A  lady." 

"May  I  make  so  bold  as  to  ask  what  lady?" 

"You  may  not.    Not  now.     Of  course  you  will  know." 

Mrs.  Berry's  short  neck  made  the  best  imitation  it  could 
of  an  offended  swan's  action.  She  was  very  angry.  She 
said  she  did  not  like  so  many  ladies,  which  natural  objec- 
tion Richard  met  by  saying  that  there  was  only  one  lady. 

"And  Mrs.  Berry,"  he  added,  dropping  his  voice.  "You 
will  treat  her  as  you  did  my  dear  girl,  for  she  will  require 
not  only  shelter  but  kindness.  I  would  rather  leave  her 
with  you  than  with  any  one.  She  has  been  very  unfortu- 
nate." 

His  serious  air  and  habitual  tone  of  command  fasci- 
nated the  softness  of  Berry,  and  it  was  not  until  he  had 
gone  that  she  spoke  out.  "Unfort'nate !  He's  going  to 
bring  me  an  unfort'nate  female !  Oh !  not  from  my  babe 
can  I  bear  that!  Never  will  I  have  her  here!  I  see  it. 
It's  that  bold-faced  woman  he's  got  mixed  up  in,  and 
she've  been  and  made  the  young  man  think  he'll  go  for  to 
reform  her.  It's  one  o'  their  arts — that  is;  and  he's  too 
innocent  a  young  man  to  mean  anythin'  else.  But  I  ain't 
a  house  of  Magdalens — no  1  and  sooner  than  have  her  here 
I'd  have  the  roof  fall  over  me,  I  would." 

She  sat  down  to  eat  her  supper  on  the  sublime  resolve. 

In  love,  Mrs.  Berry's  charity  was  all  on  the  side  of  the 
law,  and  this  is  the  case  with  many  of  her  sisters.  The 
Pilgrim  sneers  at  them  for  it,  and  would  have  us  credit 
that  it  is  their  admirable  instinct  which,  at  the  expense 
of  every  virtue  save  one,  preserves  the  artificial  barrier 
simply  to  impose  upon  us.  Men,  I  presume,  are  hardly 
fair  judges,  and  should  stand  aside  and  mark. 

Early  next  day  Mrs.  Berry  bundled  off  to  Richard's  hotel 
to  let  him  know  her  determination.  She  did  not  find  him 
there.  Returning  homeward  through  the  park,  she  beheld 
him  on  horseback  riding  by  the  side  of  the  identical  lady. 
The  sight  of  this  public  exposure  shocked  her  more  than 


352      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

the  secret  walk  under  the  trees.  "You  don't  look  near 
your  reform  yet,"  Mrs.  Berry  apostrophized  her.  "You 
don't  look  to  me  one  that'd  come  the  Fair  Penitent  till 
you've  left  off  bein'  fair — if  then  you  do,  which  some  of 
ye  don't.  Laugh  away  and  show  yer  airs!  Spite  o'  your 
hat  and  feather,  and  your  ridin'  habit,  you're  a  Bella 
Donna."  Setting  her  down  again  absolutely  for  such, 
whatever  it  might  signify,  Mrs.  Berry  had  a  virtuous  glow. 

In  the  evening  she  heard  the  noise  of  wheels  stopping 
at  the  door.  "Never!"  she  rose  from  her  chair  to  exclaim. 
"He  ain't  rided  her  out  in  the  mornin',  and  been  and  made 
a  Magdalen  of  her  afore  dark?" 

A  lady  veiled  wras  brought  into  the  house  by  Richard. 
Mrs.  Berry  feebly  tried  to  bar  his  progress  in  the  passage. 
He  pushed  past  her,  and  conducted  the  lady  into  the  par- 
lour without  speaking.  Mrs.  Berry  did  not  follow.  She 
heard  him  murmur  a  few  sentences  within.  Then  he  came 
out.  All  her  crest  stood  up,  as  she  whispered  vigorously, 
"Mr.  Richard!  if  that  woman  stay  here,  I  go  forth.  My 
house  ain't  a  penitentiary  for  unfort'nate  females,  sir" 

He  frowned  at  her  curiously;  but  as  she  was  on  the 
point  of  renewing  her  indignant  protest,  he  clapped  his 
hand  across  her  month,  and  spoke  words  in  her  ear  that 
had  awful  import  to  her.  She  trembled,  breathing  low: 
"My  Cod,  forgive  me!  Lady  Feverel  is  it?  Your  mother, 
Mr.  Richard?"    And  her  virtue  was  humbled. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

AN  ENCHANTRESS 

One  may  suppose  that  a  prematurely  aged,  oily  little 
man;  a  poet  in  bad  circumstances;  a  decrepit  butterfly 
chained  to  a  disappointed  inkstand,  will  not  put  out  stren- 
uous energies  to  retain  his  ancient  paramour  when  a 
robust  young  man  comes  imperatively  to  demand  his 
mother  of  him  in  her  person.  The  colloquy  was  short 
between  Diaper  Sandoe  and  Richard.  The  question  was 
referred  to  the  poor  spiritless  lady,  who,  seeing  that  her 
son  made  no  question  of   it,  cast  herself  on  his  hands. 


AN  ENCHANTEESS  353 

Small  loss  to  her  was  Diaper;  but  he  was  the  loss  of 
habit,  and  that  is  something  to  a  woman  who  has  lived. 
The  blood  of  her  son  had  been  running  so  long  alien  from 
her  that  the  sense  of  her  motherhood  smote  her  now  with 
strangeness,  and  Bichard's  stern  gentleness  seemed  like 
dreadful  justice  come  upon  her.  Her  heart  had  almost 
forgotten  its  maternal  functions.  She  called  him  Sir,  till 
he  bade  her  remember  he  was  her  son.  Her  voice  sounded 
to  him  like  that  of  a  broken-throated  lamb,  so  painful 
and  weak  it  was,  with  the  plaintive  stop  in  the  utterance. 
When  he  kissed  her,  her  skin  was  cold.  Her  thin  hand 
fell  out  of  his  when  his  grasp  relaxed.  "Can  sin  hunt 
one  like  this?"  he  asked,  bitterly  reproaching  himself  for 
the  shame  she  had  caused  him  to  endure,  and  a  deep 
compassion  filled  his  breast. 

Poetic  justice  had  been  dealt  to  Diaper  the  poet.  He 
thought  of  all  he  had  sacrificed  for  this  woman — the  com- 
fortable quarters,  the  friend,  the  happy  flights.  He  could 
not  but  accuse  her  of  unfaithfulness  in  leaving  him  in  his 
old  age.  Habit  had  legalized  his  union  with  her.  He 
wrote  as  pathetically  of  the  break  of  habit  as  men  feel 
at  the  death  of  love;  and  when  we  are  old  and  have  no 
fair  hope  tossing  golden  locks  before  us,  a  wound  to  this 
our  second  nature  is  quite  as  sad.  I  know  not  even  if  it 
be  not  actually  sadder. 

Day  by  day  Eichard  visited  his  mother.  Lady  Blandish 
and  Eipton  alone  were  in  the  secret.  Adrian  let  him  do 
as  he  pleased.  He  thought  proper  to  tell  him  that  the 
public  recognition  he  accorded  to  a  particular  lady  was, 
in  the  present  state  of  the  world,  scarcely  prudent. 

"  'Tis  a  proof  to  me  of  your  moral  rectitude,  my  son,  but 
the  world  will  not  think  so.  No  one  character  is  sufficient 
to  coyer  two — in  a  Protestant  country  especially.  The 
divinity  that  doth  hedge  a  Bishop  would  have  no  chance 
in  contact  with  your  Madam  Danae.  Drop  the  woman, 
my  son.  Or  permit  me  to  speak  what  you  would  have  her 
hear." 

Eichard  listened  to  him  with  disgust. 

"Well,  you've  had  my  doctorial  warning,"  said  Adrian, 
and  plunged  back  into  his  book. 

When  Lady  Feverel  had  revived  to  take  part  in  the  con- 
sultations Mrs.  Berry  perpetually  opened  on  the  subject  of 


354      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

Richard's  matrimonial  duty,  another  chain  was  cast  about 
him.  "Do  not,  oh,  do  not  offend  your  father!"  was  her 
one  repeated  supplication.  Sir  Austin  had  grown  to  be  a 
vindictive  phantom  in  her  mind.  She  never  wept  but 
win 'ii  she  said  this. 

So  Mrs.  I  Jerry,  to  whom  Richard  had  once  made  men- 
tion of  Lady  Blandish  as  the  only  friend  he  had  among 
women,  bundled  off  in  her  black-satin  dress  to  obtain  an 
interview  with  her,  and  an  ally.  After  coming  to  an  un- 
derstanding  on  the  matter  of  the  visit,  and  reiterating 
many  of  her  views  concerning  young  married  people,  Mr6. 
Berry  said:  "My  lady,  if  I  may  speak  so  bold,  I'd  say 
the  sin  that's  bein'  done  is  the  sin  o'  the  lookers-on.  And 
when  everybody  appear  frightened  by  that  young  gentle- 
man's father,  I'll  say — hopin'  your  pardon — they  no  cause 
be  frighted  at  all.  For  though  it's  nigh  twenty  year  since 
I  knew  him,  and  I  knew  him  then  just  sixteen  months — 
no  more — I'll  say  his  heart's  as  soft  as  a  woman's,  which 
I've  cause  for  to  know.  And  that's  it.  That's  where 
everybody's  deceived  by  him,  and  I  was.  It's  because  he 
keeps  his  face,  and  makes  ye  think  you're  dealin'  with  a 
man  of  iron,  and  all  the  while  there's  a  woman  underneath. 
And  a  man  that's  like  a  woman  he's  the  puzzle  o'  life! 
We  can  see  through  ourselves,  my  lady,  and  we  can  see 
through  men,  but  one  o'  that  sort — he's  like  somethin'  out 
of  nature.  Then  I  say — hopin'  be  excused — what's  to  do 
is  for  to  treat  him  like  a  woman,  and  not  for  to  let  him 
'ave  his  own  way — which  he  don't  know  himself,  and  is 
why  nobody  else  do.  Let  that  sweet  young  couple  come 
together,  and  bo  wholesome  in  spite  of  him,  I  say;  and 
then  give  him  time  to  come  round,  just  like  a  woman;  and 
round  he'll  come,  and  give  'em  his  blessin',  and  we  shall 
know  we've  made  him  comfortable.  He's  angry  because 
matrimony  have  come  between  him  and  his  son,  and  he, 
woman-like,  he's  wantin'  to  treat  what  is  as  if  it  isn't. 
But  matrimony's  a  holier  than  him.  It  began  long  long 
before  him,  and  it's  be  hoped  will  endoor  long's  the  time 
after,  if  the  world's  not  coming  to  rack — wishin'  him  no 
harm." 

\'ow  Mrs.  Berry  only  put  Lady  Bland ish's  thoughts  in 
bad  English.  The  lady  took  upon  herself  seriously  to  ad- 
vise Richard  to  send  for  his  wife.     He  wrote,  bidding  her 


AN  ENCHANTRESS  355 

come.  Lucy,  however,  had  wits,  and  inexperienced  wits 
are  as  a  little  knowledge.  In  pursuance  of  her  sage  plan 
to  make  the  family  feel  her  worth,  and  to  conquer  the 
members  of  it  one  by  one,  she  had  got  up  a  correspondence 
with  Adrian,  whom  it  tickled.  Adrian  constantly  assured 
her  all  was  going  well:  time  would  heal  the  wound  if  both 
the  offenders  had  the  fortitude  to  be  patient:  he  fancied 
he  saw  signs  of  the  baronet's  relenting:  they  must  do 
nothing  to  arrest  those  favourable  symptoms.  Indeed  the 
wise  youth  was  languidly  seeking  to  produce  them.  He 
wrote,  and  felt,  as  Lucy's  benefactor.  So  Lucy  replied  to 
her  husband  a  cheerful  rigmarole  he  could  make  nothing 
of,  save  that  she  was  happy  in  hope,  and  still  had  fears. 
Then  Mrs.  Berry  trained  her  fist  to  indite  a  letter  to  her 
bride.  Her  bride  answered  it  by  saying  she  trusted  to 
time.  "You  poor  marter,"  Mrs.  Berry  wrote  back,  "I 
know  what  your  sufferin's  be.  They  is  the  only  kind  a 
wife  should  never  hide  from  her  husband.  He  thinks  all 
sorts  of  things  if  she  can  abide  being  away.  And  you 
trusting  to  time,  why  it's  like  trusting  not  to  catch  cold 
out  of  your  natural  clothes."  There  was  no  shaking 
Lucy's  firmness. 

Richard  gave  it  up.  He  began  to  think  that  the  life 
lying  behind  him  was  the  life  of  a  fool.  What  had  he 
done  in  it?  He  had  burnt  a  rick  and  got  married!  He 
associated  the  two  acts  of  his  existence.  Where  was  the 
hero  he  was  to  have  carved  out  of  Tom  Bakewell ! — a 
wretch  he  had  taught  to  lie  and  chicane:  and  for  what? 
Great  heavens!  how  ignoble  did  a  flash  from  the  light 
of  his  aspirations  make  his  marriage  appear!  The  young 
man  sought  amusement.  He  allowed  his  aunt  to  drag 
him  into  society,  and  sick  of  that  he  made  late  evening 
calls  on  Mrs  Mount,  oblivious  of  the  purpose  he  had  in 
visiting  her  at  all.  Her  man-like  conversation,  which  he 
took  for  honesty,  was  a  refreshing  change  on  fair  lips. 

"Call  me  Bella:  I'll  call  you  Dick,"  said  she.  And  it 
came  to  be  Bella  and  Dick  between  them.  No  mention  of 
Bella  occurred  in  Richard's  letters  to  Lucy. 

Mrs.  Mount  spoke  quite  openly  of  herself.  "I  pretend 
to  be  no  better  than  I  am,"  she  said,  "and  I  know  I'm 
no  worse  than  many  a  woman  who  holds  her  head  high." 
To  back  this  she  told  him  stories  of  blooming  dames  of 


356      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

good  repute,  and  poured  a  little  social  sewerage  into  his 
ears. 

Also  she  understood  him.  ''What  you  want,  my  dear 
Dick,  is  something  to  do.  You  went  and  got  married  like 
a — hum! — friends  must  be  respectful.  (Jo  into  the  Army. 
Try  the  turf.  I  can  put  you  up  to  a  trick  or  two — friends 
should  make  themselves  useful." 

She  told  him  what  she  liked  in  him.  "You're  the  only 
man  I  was  ever  alone  with  who  don't  talk  to  me  of  1 
and  make  me  feel  sick.  I  hate  men  who  can't  speak  to 
a  woman  sensibly. — Just  wait  a  minute."  She  left  him 
and  presently  returned  with,  "Ah,  Dick!  old  fellow!  how 
are  you?" — arrayed  like  a  cavalier,  one  arm  stuck  in  her 
side,  her  hat  jauntily  cocked,  and  a  pretty  oath  on  her  lips 
to  give  reality  to  the  costume.  "What  do  you  think  of  me '. 
Wasn't  it  a  shame  to  make  a  woman  of  me  when  I  was 
born  to  be  a  man  ?" 

"I  don't  know  that,"  said  Richard,  for  the  contrast  in 
her  attire  to  those  shooting  eyes  and  lips,  aired  her  sex 
bewitchingly. 

"What!  you  think  I  don't  do  it  well?" 

"Charming!  but  I  can't  forget   ..." 

"Now  that  is  too  bad !"  she  poiited. 

Then  she  proposed  that  they  should  go  out  into  the 
mid-night  streets  arm-in-arm,  and  out  they  went  and  had 
great  fits  of  laughter  at  her  impertinent  manner  of  using 
her  eye-glass,  and  outrageous  affectation  of  the  supreme 
dandy. 

"They  take  up  men,  Dick,  for  going  about  in  women's 
clothes,  and  vice  versaw,  I  suppose.  You'll  bail  me,  old 
fellaa,  if  I  have  to  make  my  bow  to  the  beak,  won't  you  ? 
Say  it,s  becas  I'm  an  honest  woman  and  don't  care  to  hide 
the — a — unmentionables  when  I  wear  them — as  the 
t'others  do,"  sprinkled  with  the  dandy's  famous  invoca- 
tions. 

He  began  to  conceive  romance  in  that  sort  of  fun. 

"You're  a  wopper,  my  brave  Dick!  won't  let  any  peeler 
take  me?  by  Jove!" 

And  he  with  many  assxirances  guaranteed  to  stand  by 
her,  while  she  bent  her  thin  fingers  trying  the  muscle  of 
his  arm,  and  reposed  upon  it  more.  There  was  delicacy 
in  her  dandyism.    She  was  a  graceful  cavalier. 


AN  ENCHANTRESS  357 

"Sir  Julius,"  as  they  named  the  dandy's  attire,  was  fre- 
quently called  for  on  his  evening  visits  to  Mrs.  Mount. 
When  he  beheld  Sir  Julius  he  thought  of  the  lady,  and 
"vice  versaw,"  as  Sir  Julius  was  fond  of  exclaiming. 

Was  ever  hero  in  this  fashion  wooed? 

The  woman  now  and  then  would  peep  through  Sir 
Julius.  Or  she  would  sit,  and  talk,  and  altogether  forget 
she  was  impersonating  that  worthy  fop. 

She  never  uttered  an  idea  or  a  reflection,  but  Richard 
thought  her  the  cleverest  woman  he  had  ever  met. 

All  kinds  of  problematic  notions  beset  him.  She  was 
cold  as  ice,  she  hated  talk  about  love,  and  she  was  branded 
by  the  world. 

A  rumour  spread  that  reached  Mrs.  Doria's  ears.  She 
rushed  to  Adrian  first.  The  wise  youth  believed  there  was 
nothing  in  it.  She  sailed  down  upon  Richard.  "Is  this 
true?  that  you  have  been  seen  going  publicly  about  with 
an  infamous  woman,  Richard?  Tell  me!  pray,  relieve 
me!" 

Richard  knew  of  no  person  answering  to  his  aunt's  de- 
scription in  whose  company  he  could  have  been  seen. 

"Tell  me,  I  say!  Don't  quibble.  Do  you  know  any 
woman  of  bad  character?" 

The  acquaintance  of  a  lady  very  much  misjudged  and 
ill-used  by  the  world,  Richard  admitted  to. 

Urgent  grave  advice  Mrs.  Doria  tendered  her  nephew, 
both  from  the  moral  and  the  worldly  point  of  view,  men- 
tally ejaculating  all  the  while:  "That  ridiculous  System! 
That  disgraceful  marriage!"  Sir  Austin  in  his  mountain 
solitude  was  furnished  with  serious  stuff  to  brood  over. 

The  rumour  came  to  Lady  Blandish.  She  likewise  lec- 
tured Richard,  and  with  her  he  condescended  to  argue.  But 
he  found  himself  obliged  to  instance  something  he  had 
quite  neglected.  "Instead  of  her  doing  me  harm,  it's  I 
that  will  do  her  good." 

Lady  Blandish  shook  her  head  and  held  up  her  finger. 
"This  person  must  be  very  clever  to  have  given  you  that 
delusion,  dear." 

"She  is  clever.    And  the  world  treats  her  shamefully." 

"She  complains  of  her  position  to  you  ?" 

"Not  a  word.  But  I  will  stand  by  her.  She  has  no 
friend  but  me." 


358      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"My  poor  boy!  has  she  made  you  think  that?'' 
"How  unjust  you  all  are!"  cried  Richard. 
"How  mad  and  wicked  is  the  man  who  can  let  him  be 
tempted  so!"  thought  Lady  Blandish. 

He  would  pronounce  no  promise  not  to  visit  her,  not  to 
address  her  publicly.  The  world  that  condemned  her  and 
cast  her  out  was  no  better — worse  for  its  miserable  hypoc- 
risy.   He  knew  the  w^rld  now,  the  young  man  said. 

"My  child!  the  world  may  be  very  bad.  I  am  not  going 
to  defend  it.  But  you  have  some  one  else  to  think  of. 
Have  you  forgotten  you  have  a  wife,  Richard?" 

"Ay!   you    all    speak   of   her   now.      There's    my   aunt: 
'Remember  you  have  a  wife!'     Do  you  think  I  love  any 
one  but  Lucy?  poor  little  thing!     Because  I  am  married 
am  I  to  give  up  the  society  of  women?" 
"Of  women!" 
"Isn't  she  a  woman?" 

"Too  much  so!"  sighed  the  defender  of  her  sex. 
Adrian  became  more  emphatic  in  his  warnings.  Rich- 
ard laughed  at  him.  The  wise  youth  sneered  at  Mrs. 
Mount.  The  hero  then  favoured  him  with  a  warning 
equal  to  his  own  in  emphasis,  and  surpassing  it  in  sin- 
cerity. 

"We  won't  quarrel,  my  dear  boy,"  said  Adrian.  "I'm  a 
man  of  peace.  Besides,  we  are  not  fairly  proportioned  for 
a  combat.  Ride  your  steed  to  virtue's  goal!  All  I  say 
is,  that  I  think  heMl  upset  you,  and  it's  better  to  go  a  slow 
pace  and  in  companionship  with  the  children  of  the  sun. 
You  have  a  very  nice  little  woman  for  a  wife— well,  good- 
bye!" 

To  have  his  wife  and  the  world  thrown  at  his  face,  was 
unendurable  to  Richard;  he  associated  them  somewhal 
after  the  manner  of  the  rick  and  the  marriage.  Charming 
Sir  Julius,  always  gay,  always  honest,  dispersed  his  black 
moods. 

"Why,  you're  taller,"  Richard   made  the  discovery. 
"Of  course  I  am.    Don't  you  remember  you  said  I  was 
such  a  little  thing  when  1  came  out  of  my  woman's  shell?" 
"And  how  have  you  done  it?" 
'( Irown  to  please  you." 

"Now,  it'  you  can  do  that,  you  can  do  anything." 
"And  so  I  would  do  anything." 


AN  ENCHANTRESS  359 

"You  would?" 

''Honour!" 

"Then"  .  .  .  his  project  recurred  to  him.  But  the  in- 
congruity of  speaking  seriously  to  Sir  Julius  struck  him 
dumb. 

"Then  what?"  asked  she. 

"Then  you're  a  gallant  fellow." 

"That  all?" 

"Isn't  it  enough?" 

"Not  quite.  You  were  going  to  say  something.  I  saw 
it  in  your  eyes." 

"You  saw  that  I  admired  you." 

"Yes,  but  a  man  mustn't  admire  a  man." 

"I  suppose  I  had  an  idea  you  were  a  woman." 

"What !  when  I  had  the  heels  of  my  boots  raised  half 
an  inch,"  Sir  Julius  turned  one  heel,  and  volleyed  out 
silver  laughter. 

"I  don't  come  much  above  your  shoulder  even  now," 
she  said,  and  proceeded  to  measure  her  height  beside  him 
with  arch  up-glances. 

"You  must  grow  more." 

" 'Fraid  I  can't,  Dick!    Bootmakers  can't  do  it." 

"I'll  show  you  how,"  and  he  lifted  Sir  Julius  lightly, 
and  bore  the  fair  gentleman  to  the  looking-glass,  holding 
him  there  exactly  on  a  level  with  his  head.  "Will  that 
do?" 

"Yes!     Oh,  but  I  can't  stay  here." 

"Why  can't  you  ?" 

"Why  can't  I  ?" 

He  should  have  known  then — it  was  thundered  at  a 
closed  door  in  him,  that  he  played  with  fire.  But  the 
door  being  closed,  he  thought  himself  internally  secure. 

Their   eyes  met.     He  put  her  down   instantly. 

Sir  Julius,  charming  as  he  was,  lost  his  vogue.  Seeing 
that,  the  wily  woman  resumed  her  shell.  The  memory 
of  Sir  Julius  breathing  about  her  still,  doubled  the  fem- 
inine attraction. 

"I  ought  to  have  been  an  actress,"  she  said. 

Richard  told  her  he  found  all  natural  women  had  a 
similar  wish. 

"Yes!  Ah!  then!  if  I  had  been!"  sighed  Mrs.  Mount, 
gazing  on  the  pattern  of  the  carpet. 


3G0      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

He  took  her  hand,  and  pressed  it. 

"You  are  not  happy  as  you  are?" 

"No." 

''May  I  speak  to  you?" 

"Yes." 

Her  nearest  eye,  setting  a  dimple  of  her  cheek  in  motion, 
slid  to  the  corner  toward  her  ear,  as  she  Bat  with  her 
head  sideways  to  him,  listening.  When  he  had  gone,  she 
said  to  herself:  "Old  hypocrites  talk  in  that  way;  but  I 
never  heard  of  a  young  man  doing  it*  and  not  making 
love  at  the  same  time." 

Their  next  meeting  displayed  her  quieter:  subdued  as 
one  who  had  been  set  thinking.  He  lauded  her  fair 
looks.     "Don't  make  me  thrice  ashamed,"  she  petitioned. 

But  it  was  not  only  that  mood  with  her.  Dauntless 
defiance,  that  splendidly  befitted  her  gallant  outline  and 
gave  a  wildness  to  her  bright  bold  eyes,  when  she  would 
call  out:  "Happy?  who  dares  say  I'm  not  happy?  D'you 
think  if  the  world  whips  me  I'll  wince?  D'you  think  I 
care  for  what  they  say  or  do?  Let  them  kill  me!  they 
shall  never  get  one  cry  out  of  me!"  and  flashing  on  the 
young  man  as  if  he  were  the  congregated  enemy,  add: 
"There!  now  you  know  me!" — that  was  a  mood  that  well 
became  her,  and  helped  the  work.  She  ought  to  have 
been  an  actress. 

"This  must  not  go  on,"  said  Lady  Blandish  and  Mrs. 
Doria  in  unison.  A  common  object  brought  them  to- 
gether. They  confined  their  talk  to  it,  and  did  not  dis- 
agree. Mrs.  Doria  engaged  to  go  down  to  the  baronet. 
Both  ladies  knew  it  was  a  dangerous,  likely  to  turn  out 
a  disastrous,  expedition.  They  agreed  to  it  heeause  it 
was  something  to  do,  and  doing  anything  is  better  than 
doing  nothing.  "Do  it,"  said  the  wise  youth,  when  they 
made  him  a  third,  "do  it,  if  you  want  him  to  be  a  hermit 
for  life.  You  will  bring  back  nothing  but  his  dead  body, 
ladies — a  Hellenic,  rather  than  a  Roman,  triumph.  He 
will  listen  to  you — he  will  accompany  you  to  the  station — 
he  will  hand  you  into  the  carriage — and  when  you  point 
to  his  seat  he  will  bow  profoundly,  and  retire  into  his 
congenial  mists." 

Adrian  spoke  their  thoughts.  They  fretted;  they  re- 
lapsed. 


AN  ENCHANTRESS  361 

"Speak  to  him,  you,  Adrian,"  said  Mrs.  Doria.  "Speak 
to  the  boy  solemnly.  It  would  be  almost  better  he  should 
go  back  to  that  little  thing  he  has  married." 

"Almost?"  Lady  Blandish  opened  her  eyes.  "I  have 
been  advising  it  for  the  last  month  and  more." 

"A  choice  of  evils,"  said  Mrs.  Doria's  sour-sweet  face 
and  shake  of  the  head. 

Each  lady  saw  a  point  of  dissension,  and  mutually 
agreed,  with  heroic  effort,  to  avoid  it  by  shutting  their 
mouths.  What  was  more,  they  preserved  the  peace  in 
spite  of  Adrian's  artifices. 

"Well,  I'll  talk  to  him  again,"  he  said.  "I'll  try  to 
get  the  Engine  on  the  conventional  line." 

"Command  him!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Doria. 

"Gentle  means  are,  I  think,  the  only  means  with  Rich- 
ard," said  Lady  Blandish. 

Throwing  banter  aside,  as  much  as  he  could,  Adrian 
spoke  to  Richard.  "You  want  to  reform  this  woman. 
Her  manner  is  open — fair  and  free — the  traditional  char- 
acteristic. We  won't  stop  to  canvass  how  that  particular 
honesty  of  deportment  that  wins  your  approbation  has 
been  gained.  In  her  college  it  is  not  uncommon.  Girls, 
you  know,  are  not  like  boys.  At  a  certain  age  they  can't 
be  quite  natural.  It's  a  bad  sign  if  they  don't  blush, 
and  fib,  and  affect  this  and  that.  It  wears  off  when 
they're  women.  But  a  woman  who  speaks  like  a  man, 
and  has  all  those  excellent  virtues  you  admire — where  has 
she  learned  the  trick?  She  tells  you.  You  don't  surely 
approve  of  the  school?  Well,  what  is  there  in  it,  then? 
Reform  her,  of  course.  The  task  is  worthy  of  your 
energies.  But,  if  you  are  appointed  to  do  it,  don't  do 
it  publicly,  and  don't  attempt  it  just  now.  May  I  ask 
you  whether  your  wife  participates  in  this  undertaking?" 

Richard  walked  away  from  the  interrogation.  The  wise 
youth,  who  hated  long  unrelieved  speeches  and  had  healed 
his  conscience,  said  no  more. 

Dear  tender  Lucy!  Poor  darling!  Richard's  eyes 
moistened.  Her  letters  seemed-  sadder  latterly.  Yet  she 
never  called  to  him  to  come,  or  he  would  have  gone.  His 
heart  leapt  up  to  her.  He  announced  to  Adrian  that  he 
should  wait  no  longer  for  his  father.  Adrian  placidly 
nodded. 


362      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVERKL 

The  enchantress  observed  thai  lier  knight  had  a  clouded 
brow   ami   an   absent   voice. 

"Richard — I  can't  call  you  Diek  now,  I  really  don't 
know  why" — she  said,  "I  want  to  beg  a  favour  of  you." 

"Name  it.     I  can  still  call  you  Bella,  I  suppose?" 

"If  you  care  to.  What.  1  want  to  say  is  this:  when  you 
meet  me  out — to  cut  it  short — please  not  to  recognize  me." 

"And  why?" 

"Do  you  ask  to  be  told  that?" 

"Certainly  I  do." 

"Then  look:  I  won't  compromise  you." 

"I  see  no  harm,  Bella." 

"No,"  she  caressed  his  hand,  "and  there  is  none.  I 
know  that.  But,"  modest  eyelids  were  drooped,  "other 
people  do,"  struggling  eyes  were  raised. 

"What  do  we  care  for  other  people?" 

"Nothing.  1  don't.  Not  that!"  snapping  her  finger, 
"I  care  for  you,  though."  A  prolonged  look  followed 
the  declaration. 

"You're  foolish,  Bella." 

"Not  quite  so  giddy — that's  all." 

He  did  not  combat  it  with  his  usual  impetuosity. 
Adrian's  abrupt  inquiry  had  sunk  in  his  mind,  as  the  wise 
youth  intended  it  should.  He  had  instinctively  refrained 
from  speaking  to  Lucy  of  this  lady.  But  what  a  noble 
creature  the  woman  was! 

So  they  met  in  the  park;  Mrs.  Mount  whipped  past 
hini;   and  secrecy  added  a   new  sense  to  their  intimacy. 

Adrian  was  gratified  at  the  result  produced  by  his 
eloquence. 

Though  this  lady  never  expressed  an  idea,  Richard  was 
not  mistaken  in  her  cleverness.  She  could  make  evenings 
pass  gaily,  and  one  was  not  the  fellow  to  the  other.  She 
could  make  you  forget  she  was  a  woman,  and  then  bring 
the  fact  startlingly  home  to  you.  She  could  read  men 
with  one  quiver  of  her  half-closed  eyedashes.  She  could 
catch  the  coming  mood  in  a  man,  and  tit  herself  to  it. 
What  does  a  woman  want  with  ideas,  who  can  do  thus 
much?  Keenness  of  perception,  conformity,  delicacy  of 
handling,  these  be  al!  the  qualities  necessary  to  parasites. 

Love  would  have  scared  the  youth:  she  banished  it  from 
her  tongue.     It  may  also  have  been  true  that  it  sickened 


AN  ENCHANTRESS  363 

her.  She  played  or.  his  higher  nature.  She  understood 
spontaneously  what  would  be  most  strange  and  taking  to 
him  in  a  woman.  Various  as  the  Serpent  of  old  Nile, 
she  acted  fallen  beauty,  humorous  indifference,  reckless 
daring,  arrogance  in  ruin.  And  acting  thus,  what  think 
you? — She  did  it  so  well  because  she  was  growing  half 
in  earnest. 

"Richard!  I  am  not  what  I  was  since  I  knew  you. 
You  will  not  give  me  up  quite?" 

"Never,  Bella." 

"I  am  not  so  bad  as  I'm  painted!" 

"You  are  only  unfortunate." 

"Now  that  I  know  you  I  think  so,  and  yet  I  am  happier." 

She  told  him  her  history  when  this  soft  horizon  of  re- 
pentance seemed  to  throw  heaven's  twilight  across  it. 
A  woman's  history,  you  know :  certain  chapters  expunged. 
It  was  dark  enough  to  Richard. 

"Did  you  love  the  man  ?"  he  asked.  "You  say  you  love 
no  one  now." 

"Did  I  love  him?  He  was  a  nobleman  and  I  a  trades- 
man's daughter.  No.  I  did  not  love  him.  I  have  lived 
to  learn  it.  And  now  I  should  hate  him,  if  I  did  not 
despise  him." 

"Can  you  be  deceived  in  love?"  said  Richard,  more  to 
himself  than  to  her. 

"Yes.  When  we're  young  we  can  be  very  easily  de- 
ceived. If  there  is  such  a  thing  as  love,  we  discover  it 
after  we  have  tossed  about  and  roughed  it.  Then  we  find 
the  man,  or  the  woman,  that  suits  us: — and  then  it's  too 
late!  we  can't  have  him." 

"Singular!"  murmured  Richard,  "she  says  just  what 
my  father  said." 

He  spoke  aloud:  "I  could  forgive  you  if  you  had  loved 
him." 

"Don't  be  harsh,  grave  judge!  How  is  a  girl  to  distin- 
guish ?" 

"You  had  some  affection  for  him?     He  was  the  first?" 

She  chose  to  admit  that.  "Yes.  And  the  first  who  talks 
of  love  to  a  girl  must  be  a  fool  if  he  doesn't  blind 
her." 

"That  makes  what  is  called  first  love  nonsense." 

"Isn't  it?" 


3G4      THE  ORDEAL  OK   RICHARD  FEVEREL 

He  repelled  the  insinuation.  "Because  I  know  it  is 
not,  Bella." 

Nevertheless  she  had  opened  a  wider  view  of  the  world 
to  him,  and  a  colder.  He  thought  poorly  of  girls.  A 
woman — a  sensible,  brave,  beautiful  woman  seemed,  on 
comparison,  infinitely  nobler  than  those  weak  creatures. 

She  was  best  in  her  character  of  lovely  rebel  accusing 
foul  injustice.  "What  am  I  to  do?  You  tell  me  to  be 
different.  How  can  I?  What  am  I  to  do?  Will  virtuous 
people  let  me  earn  my  bread  ?  I  could  not  get  a  house- 
maid's place!  They  wouldn't  have  me — I  see  their  noses 
smelling!  Yes:  I  can  go  to  the  hospital  and  sing  behind 
a  screen!  Do  you  expect  me  to  bury  myself  alive?  Why, 
man,  I  have  blood:  I  can't  become  a  stone.  You  say  I 
am  honest,  and  I  will  be.  Then  let  me  tell  you  that  I 
have  been  used  to  luxuries,  and  I  can't  do  without  them. 
I  might  have  married  men — lots  would  have  had  me.  But 
who  marries  one  like  me  but  a  fool  ?  and  I  could  not 
marry  a  fool.  The  man  I  marry  I  must  respect.  He 
could  not  respect  me — I  should  know  him  to  be  a  fool, 
and  I  should  be  worse  off  than  I  am  now.  As  1  am  now, 
they  may  look  as  pious  as  they  like — I  laugh  at  them!" 

And  so  forth:  direr  things.  Imputations  upon  wives: 
horrible  exultation  at  the  universal  peccancy  of  husbands. 
This  lovely  outcast  almost  made  him  think  she  had  the 
right  on  her  side,  so  keenly  her  Parthian  arrows  pierced 
the  holy  centres  of  society,  and  exposed  its  rottenness. 

Mrs.  Mount's  house  was  discreetly  conducted:  nothing 
ever  occurred  to  shock  him  there.  The  young  man  would 
ask  himself  where  the  difference  was  between  her  and  the 
women  of  society?  How  base,  too,  was  the  army  of  banded 
hypocrites!  He  was  ready  to  declare  war  against  them  on 
her  behalf.  His  casus  belli,  accurately  worded,  would  have 
read  curiously.  Because  the  world  refused  to  lure  the 
lady  to  virtue  with  the  offer  of  a  housemaid's  place,  our 
knight  threw  down  his  challenge.  But  the  lady  had  scorn- 
fully rebutted  this  prospect  of  a  return  to  chastity.  Then 
the  form  of  the  challenge  must  !><■:  Because  the  world 
declined  to  support  the  lady  in  luxury  for  nothing!  But 
what  did  that  mean?  In  other  words:  she  was  to  receive 
the  devil's  wages  without  rendering  him  her  services. 
Such   an   arrangement   appears  hardly  fair  on  the  world 


AN  ENCHANTRESS  365 

or  on  the  devil.  Heroes  will  have  to  conquer  both  before 
they  will  get  them  to  subscribe  to  it. 

Heroes,  however,  are  not  in  the  habit  of  wording  their 
declarations  of  war  at  all.  Lance  in  rest  they  challenge 
and  they  charge.  Like  women  they  trust  to  instinct,  and 
graft  on  it  the  muscle  of  men.  Wide  fly  the  leisurely- 
remonstrating  hosts :  institutions  are  scattered,  they  know 
not  wherefore,  heads  are  broken  that  have  not  the  balm 
of  a  reason  why.  'Tis  instinct  strikes!  Surely  there  is 
something  divine  in  instinct. 

Still,  war  declared,  where  were  these  hosts?  The  hero 
eoidd  not  charge  down  on  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  a 
ballroom,  and  spoil  the  quadrille.  He  had  sufficient  ret- 
icence to  avoid  sounding  his  challenge  in  the  Law  Courts; 
nor  could  he  well  go  into  the  Houses  of  Parliament  with 
a  trumpet,  though  to  come  to  a  tussle  with  the  nation's 
direct  representatives  did  seem  the  likelier  method.  It 
was  likewise  out  of  the  question  that  he  should  enter 
every  house  and  shop,  and  battle  with  its  master  in  the 
cause  of  Mrs.  Mount.  Where,  then,  was  his  enemy? 
Everybody  was  his  enemy,  and  everybody  was  nowhere. 
Shall  he  convoke  multitudes  on  Wimbledon  Common? 
Blue  Policemen,  and  a  distant  dread  of  ridicule,  bar  all 
his  projects.     Alas  for  the  hero  in  our  day! 

Nothing  teaches  a  strong  arm  its  impotence  so  much  as 
knocking  at  empty  air. 

"What  can  I  do  for  this  poor  woman?"  cried  Richard, 
after  fighting  his  phantom  enemy  till  he  was  worn  out. 

"0  Rip!  old  Rip!"  he  addressed  his  friend,  "I'm  dis- 
tracted. I  wish  I  was  dead!  What  good  am  I  for?  Mis- 
erable !  selfish !  What  have  I  done  but  make  every  soul 
I  know  wretched  about  me?  I  follow  my  own  inclina- 
tions— I  make  people  help  me  by  lying  as  hard  as  they 
can — and  I'm  a  liar.  And  when  I've  got  it  I'm  ashamed 
of  myself.  And  now  when  I  do  see  something  unselfish 
for  me  to  do,  I  come  upon  grins — I  don't  know  where  to 
turn — how  to  act — and  I  laugh  at  myself  like  a  devil!" 

It  was  only  friend  Ripton's  ear  that  was  required,  so 
his  words  went  for  little:  but  Ripton  did  say  he  thought 
there  was  small  matter  to  be  ashamed  of  in  winning  and 
wearing  the  Beauty  of  Earth.  Richard  added  his  cus- 
tomary comment  of  "Poor  little  thing!" 


366      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEEEL 

He  fought  his  duello  with  empty  air  till  he  was  ex- 
hausted. A  last  letter  written  to  his  father  procured  him 
no  reply.  Then,  said  he,  I  have  tried  my  utmost.  I  have 
tried  to  be  dutiful — my  father  won't  listen  to  me.  One 
thing  I  can  do — 1  can  go  down  to  my  dear  girl,  and  make 
her  happy,  and  save  her  at  least  from  some  of  the  con- 
sequences of  my  rashness. 

"There's  nothing  better  for  me!"  he  groaned.  His  great 
ambition  must  be  covered  by  a  house-top :  he  and  the  eat 
must  warm  themselves  on  the  domestic  hearth !  The  hero 
was  not  aware  that  his  heart  moved  him  to  this.  His 
heart  was  not  now  in  open  communion  with  his  mind. 

Mrs.  Mount  heard  that  her  friend  was  going — would  go. 
She  knew  he  was  going  to  his  wife.  Far  from  discourag- 
ing him,  she  said  nobly:  "Go — I  believe  I  have  kept  you. 
Let  us  have  an  evening  together,  and  then  go:  for  good, 
if  you  like.  If  not,  then  to  meet  again  another  time. 
Forget  me.  I  shan't  forget  you.  You're  the  best  fellow 
I  ever  knew,  Richard.  You  are,  on  my  honour!  I  swear 
I  would  not  step  in  between  you  and  your  wife  to  cause 
either  of  you  a  moment's  unhappiness.  When  I  can  be 
another  woman  I  will,  and  I  shall  think  of  you  then." 

Lady  Blandish  heard  from  Adrian  that  Richard  was 
positively  going  to  his  wife.  The  wise  youth  modestly 
veiled  his  own  merit  in  bringing  it  about  by  saying:  'T 
couldn't  see  that  poor  little  woman  left  alone  down  there 
any  longer." 

"Well!  Yes!"  said  Mrs.  Doria,  to  whom  the  modest 
speech  was  repeated,  "I  suppose,  poor  boy,  it's  the  best 
he  can  do  now." 

Richard  bade  them  adieu,  and  went  to  spend  his  last 
evening  with  Mrs.  Mount. 

The  enchantress  received  him  in  state. 

"Do  you  know  this  dress?  No?  It's  the  dress  I  wore 
when  I  first  met  you — not  when  I  first  saw  you.  I  think 
I  remarked  ymi,  sir.  before  you  deigned  to  cast  an  eye 
upon  humble  me.  Winn  we  first  met  we  drank  champagne 
together,  and  1  intend  to  celebrate  our  parting  in  the 
same  liquor.     Will  you  liquor  with  me,  <>ld  boy?" 

She  was  gay.  She  revived  Sir  Julius  occasionally.  He, 
dispirited,  left  the  talking  all  to  her. 

Mrs.    .Mount  kept  a  footman.     At  a  late  hour  the  man 


AN  ENCHANTRESS  367 

of  calves  dressed  the  table  for  supper.  It  was  a  point  of 
honour  for  Richard  to  sit  down  to  it  and  try  to  eat. 
Drinking,  thanks  to  the  kindly  mother  nature,  who  loves 
to  see  her  children  made  fools  of,  is  always  an  easier 
matter.  The  footman  was  diligent;  the  champagne  corks 
feebly  recalled  the  file-firing  at  Richmond. 

"We'll  drink  to  what  we  might  have  been,  Dick,"  said 
the  enchantress. 

Oh,  the  glorious  wreck  she  looked. 

His  heart  choked  as  he  gulped  the  buzzing  wine. 

"What!  down,  my  boy?"  she  cried.  "They  shall  never 
see  me  hoist  signals  of  distress.  We  must  all  die,  and  the 
secret  of  the  thing  is  to  die  game,  by  Jove!  Did  you  ever 
hear  of  Laura  Fenn  ?  a  superb  girl !  handsomer  than  your 
humble  servant — if  you'll  believe  it — a  'Miss'  in  the  bar- 
gain, and  as  a  consequence,  I  suppose,  a  much  greater 
rake.  She  was  in  the  hunting-field.  Her  horse  threw 
her,  and  she  fell  plump  on  a  stake.  It  went  into  her  left 
breast.  All  the  fellows  crowded  round  her,  and  one  young 
man,  who  was  in  love  with  her — he  sits  in  the  House  of 
Peers  now — we  used  to  call  him  'Duck'  because  he  was 
such  a  dear — he  dropped  from  his  horse  to  his  knees: 
'Laura !  Laura !  my  darling !  speak  a  word  to  me ! — the 
last !'  She  turned  over  all  white  and  bloody !  'I — I  shan't 
be  in  at  the  death!'  and  gave  up  the  ghost!  Wasn't  that 
dying  game?  Here's  to  the  example  of  Laura  Fenn! 
Why,  what's  the  matter?  See!  it  makes  a  man  turn 
pale  to  hear  how  a  woman  can  die.  Fill  the  glasses, 
John.     Why,  you're  as  bad !" 

"It's  give  me  a  turn,  my  lady,"  pleaded  John,  and  the 
man's  hand  was  unsteady  as  he  poured  out  the  wine. 

"You  ought  not  to  listen.     Go,  and  drink  some  brandy." 

John  footman  went  from  the  room. 

"My  brave  Dick !  Richard !  what  a  face  you've  got !" 

He  showed  a  deep  frown  on  a  colourless  face. 

"Can't  you  bear  to  hear  of  blood?  You  know,  it  was 
only  one  naughty  woman  out  of  the  world.  The  clergy- 
man of  the  parish  didn't  refuse  to  give  her  decent  burial. 
We  are  Christians!     Hurrah!" 

She  cheered,  and  laughed.  A  lurid  splendour  glanced 
about  her  like  lights  from  the  pit. 

"Pledge  me,  Dick!     Drink,  and  recover  yourself.    Who 


3G8      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

minds?  We  must  all  die — the  pood  and  the  bad.  Ashes 
to  ashes — dust  to  dust — and  wine  for  living  lips!  That's 
poetry — almost.  Sentiment:  'May  we  never  say  die  till 
we've  drunk  our  fill!'  Not  bad — eh?  A  little  vulgar, 
perhaps,  by  .love!      I  )o  you  think  me  horrid?" 

"Where's  the  wine?"  Richard  shouted.  He  drank  a 
couple  of  glasses  in  succession,  and  stared  about.  Was 
he  in  hell,  with  a  lost  soul  raving  to  him? 

"Nobly  spoken!  and  nobly  acted  upon,  my  brave  Dick! 
Now  we'll  be  companions.  'She  wished  that  heaven  had 
made  her  such  a  man.'  Ah,  Dick!  Dick!  too  late!  too 
late!" 

Softly  fell  her  voice.     Her  eyes  threw  slanting  beams. 

"Do  you  see  this?" 

She  pointed  to  a  symbolic  golden  anchor  studded  with 
gems  and  coiled  with  a  rope  of  hair  in  her  bosom.  It  was 
a  gift  of  his. 

"Do  you  know  when  I  stole  the  lock?  Foolish  Dickl 
you  gave  me  an  anchor  without  a  rope.     Come  and  see." 

She  rose  from  the  table,  and  threw  herself  on  the  sofa. 

"Don't  you  recognize  your  own  hair!  I  should  know 
a  thread  of  mine  among  a  million." 

Something  of  the  strength  of  Samson  went  out  of  him 
as  he  inspected  his  hair  on  the  bosom  of  Delilah. 

"And  you  knew  nothing  of  it !  You  hardly  know  it 
now  you  see  it!  What  couldn't  a  woman  steal  from  you? 
But  you're  not  vain,  and  that's  a  protection.  You're  a 
miracle,  Dick:  a  man  that's  not  vain!  Sit  here."  She 
curled  up  her  feet  to  give  him  place  on  the  sofa.  "Now 
let  us  talk  like  friends  that  part  to  meet  no  more.  You 
found  a  ship  with  fever  on  board,  and  you  weren't  afraid 
to  come  alongside  and  keep  her  company.  The  fever  isn't 
catching,  you  see.  Let  us  mingle  our  tears  together.  Ha ! 
ha !  a  man  said  that  once  to  me.  The  hypocrite  wanted 
to  catch  the  fever,  but  he  was  too  old.  How  old  are  you, 
Dick?" 

Richard  pushed  a  few  months  forward. 

"Twenty-one?  You  just  look  it,  you  blooming  boy. 
Now  tell  me  my  age,  Adonis! — Twenty — what?" 

Richard  had  given  the  lady  twenty-five  years. 

She  laughed  violently.  "You  don't  pay  compliments, 
Dick.     Best  to  be  honest;  guess  again.     You  don't  like 


AN  ENCHANTRESS  369 

to  ?  Not  twenty-five,  or  twenty-four,  or  twenty-three,  or — 
see  how  he  begins  to  start ! — twenty-two.  Just  twenty-one, 
my  dear.  I  think  my  birthday's  somewhere  in  next  month. 
Why,  look  at  me,  close — closer.     Have  I  a  wrinkle?" 

"And  when,  in  heaven's  name!"  ...  he  stopped  short. 

"I  understand  you.  When  did  I  commence  for  to  live? 
At  the  ripe  age  of  sixteen  I  saw  a  nobleman  in  despair 
because  of  my  beauty.  He  vowed  he'd  die.  I  didn't 
want  him  to  do  that.  So  to  save  the  poor  man  for  his 
family,  I  ran  away  with  him,  and  I  dare  say  they  didn't 
appreciate  the  sacrifice,  and  he  soon  forgot  to,  if  he 
ever  did.     It's  the  way  of  the  world!" 

Richard  seized  some  dead  champagne,  emptied  the 
bottle   into   a  tumbler,   and  drank   it  off. 

John  footman  entered  to  clear  the  table,  and  they 
were  left  without  further  interruption. 

"Bella!  Bella!"  Richard  uttered  in  a  deep  sad  voice, 
as  he  walked  the  room. 

She  leaned  on  her  arm,  her  hair  crushed  against  a 
reddened  cheek,  her  eyes  half-shut  and  dreamy. 

"Bella!"  he  dropped  beside  her.     "You  are  unhappy." 

She  blinked  and  yawned,  as  one  who  is  awakened  sud- 
denly.    "I  think  you  spoke,"  said  she. 

"You  are  unhappy,  Bella.  You  can't  conceal  it.  Your 
laugh  sounds  like  madness.  You  must  be  unhappy.  So 
young,  too !     Only  twenty-one !" 

"What  does  it  matter?    Who  cares  for  me?" 

The  mighty  pity  falling  from  his  eyes  took  in  her 
whole  shape.  She  did  not  mistake  it  for  tenderness,  as 
another  would  have  done. 

"Who  cares  for  you,  Bella?  I  do.  What  makes  my 
misery  now,  but  to  see  you  there,  and  know  of  no  way 
of  helping  you?  Father  of  mercy!  it  seems  too  much  to 
have  to  stand  by  powerless  while  such  ruin  is  going  on !" 

Her  hand  was  shaken  in  his  by  the  passion  of  torment 
with  which  his  frame  quaked. 

Involuntarily  a  tear  started  between  her  eyelids.  She 
glanced  up  at  him  quickly,  then  looked  down,  drew  her 
hand  from  his,   and  smoothed  it,  eying  it. 

"Bella!  you  have  a  father  alive!" 

"A  linendraper,  dear.     He  wears  a  white  neck-cloth." 

This   article   of   apparel    instantaneously    changed   the 


370      THE  ORDEAL  OF  kit  IIAKI)  FEVEREL 

tone  of  the  conversation,  for  he,  rising  abruptly,  nearly 
squashed  the  lady's  lap-dog,  whose  squeaks  and  howls  were 
piteous,  and  demanded  the  most  fervent  caresses  of  its 
mistress.  It  was:  "Oh,  my  poor  pet  Mumpsy,  and  he 
didn't  like  a  nasty  great  big  Ugly  heavy  foot  on  his  poor 
soft  silky — mum— mum — back,  he  didn't,  and  he  soodn't 
that  he — mum — mum — soodn't;  and  he  cried  out  and 
knew  the  place  to  come  to,  and  was  oh  so  sorry  for  what 
had  happened  to  him — mum — mum — mum — and  now  he 
was  going  to  be  made  happy,  his  mistress  make  him 
happy — mum — mum — mum — moo-o-o-o." 

"Yes!"  said  Richard,  savagely,  from  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  "you  care  for  the  happiness  of  your  dog." 

"A   course  se  does,"  Mumpsy  was  simperingly  assured 
in  the  thick  of  his  silky  flanks. 

Richard  looked  for  his  hat.  Mumpsy  was  deposited 
on  the  sofa  in  a  twinkling. 

"Now,"  said  the  lady,  "you  must  come  and  beg  Mumpsy'a 
pardon,  whether  you  meant  to  do  it  or  no,  because  little 
doggies  can't  tell  that — how  should  they?  And  there's 
poor  Mumpsy  thinking  you're  a  great  terrible  rival  that 
tries  to  squash  him  all  flat  to  nothing,  on  purpose,  pre- 
tending you  didn't  see;  and  he's  trembling,  poor  dear 
wee  pet!  And  I  may  love  my  dog,  sir,  if  I  like;  and  I 
do;  and  I  won't  have  him  ill-treated,  for  he's  never  been 
jealous  of  you,  and  he  is  a  darling,  ten  times  truer  than 
men,  and  I  love  him  fifty  times  better.  So  come  to  him 
with  me." 

First  a  smile  changed  Richard's  face;  then  laughing 
a  melancholy  laugh,  he  surrendered  to  her  humour,  and 
went  through  the  form  of  begging  Mumpsy 's  pardon. 

"The  dear  dog!  I  do  believe  he  saw  we  were  getting 
dull,"  said  she. 

"And  immolated  himself  intentionally?   Noble  animal!" 

"Well,  we'll  act  as  if  we  thought  so.  Let  us  be  gay, 
Richard,  and  not  part  like  ancient  fogies.  Where's  your 
fun  ?  You  can  rattle ;  why  don't  you  ?  You  haven't  seen 
me  in  one  of  my  characters — not  Sir  Julius:  wait  a  couple 
of  minutes."     She  ran  out. 

A  white  visage  reappeared  behind  a  spring  of  flame. 
Tier  black  hair  was  scattered  over  her  shoulders  and  fell 
half  across  her  brows.     She  moved  slowly,  and  came  up 


AN  ENCHANTRESS  371 

to  him,  fastening  weird  eyes  on  him,  pointing  a  finger 
at  the  region  of  witches.  Sepulchral  cadences  accom- 
panied the  representation.  He  did  not  listen,  for  he 
was  thinking  what  a  deadly  charming  and  exquisitely 
horrid  witch  she  was.  Something  in  the  way  her  under- 
lids  worked  seemed  to  remind  him  of  a  forgotten  picture; 
but  a  veil  hung  on  the  picture.  There  could  be  no 
analogy,  for  this  was  beautiful  and  devilish,  and  that, 
if  he  remembered  rightly,  had  the  beauty  of  seraphs. 

His  reflections  and  her  performance  were  stayed  by  a 
shriek.  The  spirits  of  wine  had  run  over  the  plate  she 
held  to  the  floor.  She  had  the  coolness  to  put  the  plate 
down  on  the  table,  while  he  stamped  out  the  flame  on 
the  carpet.  Again  she  shrieked :  she  thought  she  was  on 
fire.  He  fell  on  his  knees  and  clasped  her  skirts  all 
round,  drawing  his  arms  down  them  several  times. 

Still  kneeling,  he  looked  up,  and  asked,  "Do  you  feel 
safe  now?" 

She  bent  her  face  glaring  down  till  the  ends  of  her  hair 
touched  his  cheek. 

Said  she,  "Do  you?" 

Was  she  a  witch  verily?  There  was  sorcery  in  her 
breath;  sorcery  in  her  hair:  the  ends  of  it  stung  him  like 
little  snakes. 

"How  do  I  do  it,  Dick?"  she  flung  back,  laughing. 

"Like  you  do  everything,  Bella,"  he  said,  and  took  a 
breath. 

"There !  I  won't  be  a  witch ;  I  won't  be  a  witch :  they 
may  burn  me  to  a  cinder,  but  I  won't  be  a  witch!" 

She  sang,  throwing  her  hair  about,  and  stamping  her 
feet. 

"I  suppose  I  look  a  figure.  I  must  go  and  tidy  my- 
self." 

"No,  don't  change.  I  like  to  see  you  so."  He  gazed 
at  her  with  a  mixture  of  wonder  and  admiration.  "I 
can't  think  you  the  same  person — not  even  when  you 
laugh." 

"Richard,"  her  tone  was  serious,  "you  were  going  to 
speak  to  me  of  my  parents." 

"How  wild  and  awful  you  looked,  Bella!" 

"My  father,  Richard,   was  a  very  respectable  man." 

"Bella,  you'll  haunt  me  like  a  ghost." 


372      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"My   mother   die]    in    my    infancy,   Richard." 

"Don't  put   \\}>  your  hair,  Bella." 

"I  was    m  only  "child!" 

Eer  head  shook  sorrowfully  at  the  glistening  fire-irons. 
He  followed  the  abstracted  intentness  of  her  look,  and 
came  upon  her  words. 

"Ah,  yes!  speak  of  your  father,  Bella.     Speak  of  him." 

"Shall  I  haunt  you,  and  come  to  your  bedside,  and  cry, 
"Tis  time'?" 

"Dear  Bella!  if  you  will  tell  me  where  he  lives,  I  will 
go  to  him.  He  shall  receive  you.  He  shall  not  refuse — 
he  shall  forgive  you." 

"If  I  haunt  you,  you  can't  forget  me,  Richard." 

"Let  me  go  to  your  father.  Bella — let  me  go  to  him 
to-morrow.  I'll  give  you  my  time.  It's  all  I  can  give.  O 
Bella !  let  me  save  you." 

"So  you  like  me  best  dishevelled,  do  you,  you  naughty 
boy!  Ha!  ha!"  and  away  she  burst  from  him,  and  up 
flew  her  hair,  as  she  danced  across  the  room,  and  fell  at 
full  length  on   the  sofa. 

He  felt  giddy:  bewitched. 

"We'll  talk  of  everyday  things,  Dick,"  she  called  to  him 
from  the  sofa.  "It's  our  last  evening.  Our  last?  Heigho! 
It  makes  me  sentimental.  How's  that  Mr.  Ripson,  Pip- 
son,  Nipson? — it's  not  complimentary,  but  I  can't  remem- 
ber names  of  that  sort.  Why  do  you  have  friends  of 
that  sort?  He's  not  a  gentleman.  Better  is  he?  Well, 
he's  rather  too  insignificant  for  me.  Why  do  you  sit 
off  there?  Come  to  me  instantly.  There — I'll  sit  up,  and 
be  proper,  and  you'll  have  plenty  of  room.     Talk,  Dick !" 

He  was  rerieeting  on  the  fact  that  her  eyes  were  brown. 
They  had  a  haughty  sparkle  when  she  pleased,  and  when 
she  pleased  a  soft  languor  circled  them.  Excitement  had 
dyed  her  cheeks  deep  red.  He  was  a  youth,  and  she  an 
enchantress.     He  a  hero;  she  a  female  will-o'-the-wisp. 

The  eyes  were  languid  now,  set   in  rosy  colour. 

"You  will  not  leave  me  yet,  Richard?  not  yet?" 

He  had  no  thought  of  departing. 

"It's  our  last  night — I  suppose  it's  our  last  hour  to- 
gether in  this  world — and  I  don't  want  to  meet  you  in 
the  next,  for  poor  Dick  will  have  to  come  to  such  a  very, 
very  disagreeable  place  to  make  the  visit." 


AN  ENCHANTRESS  373 

He  grasped  her  hand  at  this. 

"Yes,  he  will!  too  true!  can't  be  helped:  they  say  I'm 
handsome." 

"You're  lovely,  Bella." 

She  drank  in  his  homage. 

"Well,  we'll  admit  it.  His  Highness  below  likes  lovely 
women,  I  hear  say.  A  gentleman  of  taste!  You  don't 
know   all  my  accomplishments  yet,  Richard." 

"I  shan't  be  astonished  at  anything  new,  Bella." 

"Then  hear,  and  wonder."  Her  voice  trolled  out  some 
lively  roulades.  "Don't  you  think  he'll  make  me  his 
prima  donna  below?  It's  nonsense  to  tell  me  there's  no 
singing  there.  And  the  atmosphere  will  be  favourable 
to  the  voice.  No  damp,  you  know.  You  saw  the  piano 
— why  didn't  you  ask  me  to  sing  before?  I  can  sing 
Italian.  I  had  a  master — who  made  love  to  me.  I  for- 
gave him  because  of  the  music-stool — men  can't  help  it 
on  a  music-stool,  poor  dears!" 

She  went  to  the  piano,  struck  the  notes,  and  sang — 

"  'My  heart,  my  heart — I  think  'twill  break.' 

"Because  I'm  such  a  rake.  I  don't  know  any  other 
reason.  No;  I  hate  sentimental  songs.  Won't  sing  that. 
Ta-tiddy-tiddy-iddy — a  .  .  .  e!  How  ridiculous  those 
women  were,  coming  home  from  Richmond! 

'Once  the  sweet  romance  of  story 

Clad  thy  moving  form  with  grace; 
Once  the  world  and  all  its  glory 

Was  but  framework  to  thy  face. 
Ah,  too  fair! — what  I  remember, 

Might  my  soul  recall — but  no ! 
To  the  winds  this  wretched  ember 

Of  a  fire  that  falls  so  low!' 

"Hum!  don't  much  like  that.  Tum-te-tum-tum — ac- 
canto  al  fuoco — heigho !  I  don't  want  to  show  off,  Dick — 
or  to  break  down — so  I  won't  try  that. 

'Oh!   but  for  thee,  oh!   but  for  thee, 

I  might  have  been  a  happy  wife, 
And  nursed  a  baby  on  my  knee, 

And  never  blushed  to  give  it  life.' 


374       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"I  used  to  sing  thai  when  I  was  a  girl,  sweet  Richard, 
and  didn't  know  at  all.  at  all,  what  it  meant.  Mustn't 
sing  that  sort  of  song  in  company.  We're  oh!  so  proper 
— even  we ! 

'If  I  had  a  husband,  what  think  you  I'd  do? 

I'd  make  it  my  business  to  keep  him  a  lover; 
For  when  a  young  gentleman  ceases  to  woo, 

Some  other  amusement  he'll  quickly  discover.' 

"For  such  are  young  gentlemen  made  of — made  of: 
such  are  young  gentlemen  made  of !" 

After  this  trifling  she  sang  a  Spanish  ballad  sweetly. 
He  was  in  the  mood  when  imagination  intensely  vivifies 
everything.  Mere  suggestion  of  music  sufficed.  The  lady 
in  the  ballad  had  been  wronged.  Lo!  it  was  the  lady 
before  him;  and  soft  horns  blew;  he  smelt  the  languid 
night-flowers;  he  saw  the  stars  crowd  large  and  close 
above  the  arid  plain:  this  lady  leaning  at  her  window 
desolate,  pouring  out  her  abandoned  heart. 

Heroes  know  little  what  they  owe  to  champagne. 

The  lady  wandered  to  Venice.  Thither  he  followed  her 
at  a  leap.  In  Venice  she  was  not  happy.  He  was  pre- 
pared for  the  misery  of  any  woman  anywhere.  Rut,  oh! 
to  be  with  her!  To  glide  with  phantom-motion  through 
throbbing  street;  past  houses  muffled  in  shadow  and 
gloomy  legends;  under  storied  bridges;  past  palaces 
charged  with  full  life  in  dead  quietness;  past  grand  old 
towers,  colossal  squares,  gleaming  quays,  and  out,  and  on 
with  her,  on  into  the  silver  infinity  shaking  over  seas! 

Was  it  the  champagne?  the  music!  or  the  poetry? 
Something  of  the  two  former,  perhaps:  but  most  the 
enchantress  playing  upon  him.  How  many  instruments 
cannot  clever  women  play  upon  at  the  same  moment ! 
And  this  enchantress  was  not  too  clever,  or  he  might 
have  felt  her  touch.  She  was  no  longer  absolutely  bent 
on  winning  him,  or  he  might  have  seen  a  manoeuvre. 
She  liked  him — liked  none  better.  She  wished  him  well. 
Her  pique  was  satisfied.  Still  he  was  handsome,  and 
he  was  going.  What  she  liked  him  for,  she  rather — very 
slightly — wished  to  do  away  with,  or  see  if  it  could  be 
done  away   with:   just   as   one  wishes   to   catch   a  pretty 


AN  ENCHANTRESS  375 

butterfly,  without  hurting  its  patterned  wings.  No-  harm 
intended  to  the  innocent  insect,  only  one  wants  to  inspect 
it  thoroughly,  and  enjoy  the  marvel  of  it,  in  one's  tender 
possession,  and  have  the  felicity  of  thinking  one  could 
crush  it,  if  one  would. 

He  knew  her  what  she  was,  this  lady.  In  Seville,  or  in 
Venice,  the  spot  was  on  her.  Sailing  the  pathways  of 
the  moon  it  was  not  celestial  light  that  illumined  her 
beauty.  Her  sin  was  there:  but  in  dreaming  to  save,  he 
was  soft  to  her  sin — drowned  it  in  deep  mournfulness.  _ 

Silence,  and  the  rustle  of  her  dress,  awoke  him  from  his 
musing.  She  swam  wave-like  to  the  sofa.  She  was  at  his 
feet. 

"I  have  been  light  and  careless  to-night,  Richard.  Of 
course  I  meant  it.  I  must  be  happy  with  my  best  friend 
going  to  leave  me." 

Those  witch  underlids  were  working  brightly. 

"You  will  not  forget  me  ?  and  I  shall  try  ...  try  ... " 

Her  lips  twitched.  She  thought  him  such  a  very  hand- 
some fellow. 

"If  I  change — if  I  can  change  ...  Oh !  if  you  could 
know  what  a  net  I'm  in,  Richard!" 

Now  at  those  words,  as  he  looked  down  on  her  haggard 
loveliness,  not  divine  sorrow  but  a  devouring  jealousy 
sprang  like  fire  to  his  breast',  and  set  him  rocking  with 
horrid  pain.  He  bent  closer  to  her  pale  beseeching  face. 
Her  eyes  still  drew  him  down. 

"Bella!     No!  no!  promise  me!  swear  it!" 

"Lost,  Richard!  lost  for  ever!  give  me  up!" 

He  cried:  "I  never  will!"  and  strained  her  in  his  arms, 
and  kissed  her  passionately  on  the  lips. 

She  was  not  acting  now  as  she  sidled  and  slunk  her 
half-averted  head  with  a  kind  of  maiden  shame  under 
his  arm,  sighing  heavily,  weeping,  clinging  to  him.  It 
was  wicked  truth. 

Not  a  word  of  love  between  them! 

Was  ever  hero  in  this  fashion  won? 


376      THE  ORDEAL  oh    RICHARD  FEVEREL 


CHAPTER   XXXIX 

THE   LITTLE   BIRD   AND   THE    FALCON;    A    BERRY   TO 

THE  RESCUE! 

At  a  season  when  the  pleasant  South-western  Island  ha9 
few  attractions  to  other  than  invalids  and  hermits  en- 
amoured of  wind  and  rain,  the  potent  nobleman,  Lord 
Mountfalcon,  still  lingered  there  to  the  disgust  of  his 
friends  and  special  parasite.  "Mount's  in  for  it  again," 
they  said  among  themselves.  "Hang  the  women!"  was 
a  natural  sequence.  For,  don't  you  see,  what  a  shame 
it  was  of  the  women  to  be  always  kindling  such  a  very 
inflammable  subject!  All  understood  that  Cupid  had 
twanged  his  bow,  and  transfixed  a  peer  of  Britain  for 
the  fiftieth  time:  but  none  would  perceive,  though  he 
vouched  for  it  with  his  most  eloquent  oaths,  that  this 
was  a  totally  different  case  from  the  antecedent  ones. 
So  it  had  been  sworn  to  them  too  frequently  before. 
He  was  as  a  man  with  mighty  tidings,  and  no  language: 
intensely  communicative,  but  inarticulate.  Good  round 
oaths  had  formerly  compassed  and  expounded  his  noble 
emotions.  They  were  now  quite  beyond  the  comprehen- 
sion of  blasphemy,  even  when  emphasized,  and  by  this 
the  poor  lord  divinely  felt  the  case  was  different.  There 
is  something  impressive  in  a  great  human  hulk  writh- 
ing under  the  unutterable  torments  of  a  mastery  he  can- 
not contend  with,  or  account  for,  or  explain  by  means 
of  intelligible  words.  At  first  he  took  refuge  in  the 
depths  of  his  contempt  for  women.  Cupid  gave  him 
line.  When  he  had  come  to  vent  his  worst  of  them,  the 
fair  face  now  stamped  on  his  brain  beamed  the  more 
triumphantly:  so  the  harpooned  whale  rose  to  the  sur- 
face, and  after  a  few  convulsions,  surrendered  his  huge 
length.  My  lord  was  in  love  with  Richard's  young  wife. 
He  gave  proofs  of  it  by  burying  himself  beside  her.  To 
her,  could  she  have  seen  it,  he  gave  further  proofs  of  a 
real  devotion,  in  affecting,  and  in  her  presence  feeling, 
nothing  beyond  a  lively  interest  in  her  well-being.  This 
wonder,  that  when  near  her  he  should  be  cool  and  com- 


A  BERRY  TO   THE  RESCUE  377 

posed,  and  when  away  from  her  wrapped  in  a  tempest  of 
desires,  was  matter  for  what  powers  of  cogitation  the 
heavy  nobleman  possessed. 

The  Hon.  Peter,  tired  of  his  journeys  to  and  fro,  urged 
him  to  press  the  business.  Lord  Mountfalcon  was  wiser, 
or  more  scrupulous,  than  his  parasite.  Almost  every 
evening  he  saw  Lucy.  The  inexperienced  little  wife 
apprehended  no  harm  in  his  visits.  Moreover,  Richard 
had  commended  her  to  the  care  of  Lord  Mountfalcon, 
and  Lady  Judith.  Lady  Judith  had  left  the  Island  for 
London :  Lord  Mountfalcon  remained.  There  could  be 
no  harm.  If  she  had  ever  thought  so,  she  no  longer  did. 
Secretly,  perhaps,  she  was  nattered.  Lord  Mountfalcon 
was  as  well  educated  as  it  is  the  fortune  of  the  run  of 
titled  elder  sons  to  be :  he  could  talk  and  instruct :  he  was 
a  lord:  and  he  let  her  understand  that  he  was  wicked, 
very  wicked,  and  that  she  improved  him.  The  heroine,  in 
common  with  the  hero,  has  her  ambition  to  be  of  use  in 
the  world — to  do  some  good;  and  the  task  of  reclaiming 
a  bad  man  is  extremely  seductive  to  good  women.  Dear 
to  their  tender  bosoms  as  old  china  is  a  bad  man  they  are 
mending!  Lord  Mountfalcon  had  none  of  the  arts  of  a 
libertine:  his  gold,  his  title,  and  his  person  had  hitherto 
preserved  him  from  having  long  to  sigh  in  vain,  or  sigh 
at  all,  possibly:  the  Hon.  Peter  did  his  villanies  for  him. 
No  alarm  was  given  to  Lucy's  pure  instinct,  as  might 
have  been  the  case  had  my  lord  been  over-adept.  It  was 
nice  in  her  martyrdom  to  have  a  true  friend  to  support 
her,  and  really  to  be  able  to  do  something  for  that  friend. 
Too  simple-minded  to  think  much  of  his  lordship's  posi- 
tion, she  was  yet  a  woman.  "He,  a  great  nobleman,  does 
not  scorn  to  acknowledge  me,  and  think  something  of  me," 
may  have  been  one  of  the  half-thoughts  passing  through 
her  now  and  then,  as  she  reflected  in  self-defence  on  the 
proud  family  she  had  married  into. 

January  was  watering  and  freezing  old  earth  by  turns, 
when  the  Hon.  Peter  travelled  down  to  the  sun  of  his 
purse  with  great  news.  He  had  no  sooner  broached  his 
lordship's  immediate  weakness,  than  Mountfalcon  began 
to  plunge  like  a  heavy  dragoon  in  difficulties.  He  swore 
by  this  and  that  he  had  come  across  an  angel  for  his  sins, 
and  would  do  her  no  hurt.     The  next  moment  he  swore 


THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

she  must  be  his,  though  she  cursed  like  a  cat.  His  lord- 
ship's illustrations  were  not  choice.  "I  haven't  advanced 
an  inch,"  he  groaned.  "Brayder!  upon  my  soul,  that  little 
woman  could  do  anything  with  me.  By  heaven!  \\\  marry 
her  to-morrow.  Here  I  am,  seeing  her  every  day  in  the 
week  out  or  in,  and  what  do  you  think  she  gets  me  to 
talk  about!? — history!  Isn't  it  enough  to  make  a  fellow 
mad  '.  and  there  am  I  lecturing  like  a  prig,  and  by  heaven! 
while  I'm  at  it  I  feel  a  pleasure  in  it;  and  when  I  leave 
the  house  I  should  feel  an  immense  gratification  in  shoot- 
ing somebody.     What  do  they  say  in  town?" 

"Not  much,"  said  Brayder,  significantly. 

"When's   that   fellow — her   husband — coming   down?" 

"I  rather  hope  we've  settled  him  for  life,  Mount." 

Nobleman  and  parasite  exchanged  looks. 

"How  d'ye  mean?" 

Brayder  hummed  an  air,  and  broke  it  to  say,  "He's  in 
for  Don  Juan  at  a  gallop,  that's  all." 

"The  deuce!  Has  Bella  got  him?"  Mountfalcon  asked 
with  eagerness. 

Brayder  handed  my  lord  a  letter.  It  was  dated  from 
the  Sussex  coast,  signed  "Richard,"  and  was  worded  thus: 

"My  beautiful  Devil! — 

"Since  we're  both  devils  together,  and  have  found  each 
other  out,  come  to  me  at  once,  or  I  shall  be  going  some- 
where in  a  hurry.  Come,  my  bright  hell-star!  I  ran 
away  from  you,  and  now  I  ask  you  to  come  to  me!  You 
have  taught  me  how  devils  love,  and  I  can't  do  without 
you.     Come  an  hour  after  you  receive  this." 

Mountfalcon  turned  over  the  letter  to  see  if  there  was 
any  more.  "Complimentary  love-epistle  I"  he  remarked, 
and  rising  from  his  chair  and  striding  about,  muttered, 
"The  dog!  how  infamously  he  treats  his  wife!" 

"Very  bad,"  said  Brayder. 

"How  did  you  gel  hold  of  this?" 

"Strolled  into  Bella's  dressing-room,  waiting  for  her — 
turned  over  her  pincushion  hap-hazard.  You  know  her 
trick." 

"I5v  ,l..ve!  I  think  that  girl  does  it  on  purpose.  'I  bank 
heaven,  1  haven't  written  her  any  letters  for  an  age.  Is 
she  going  to  him?" 

"Not  she!     But  it's  odd,  Mount! — did  you  ever  know 


A  BEERY  TO  THE  RESCUE  379 

her  refuse  money  before  ?  She  tore  up  the  cheque  in  style, 
and  presented  me  the  fragments  with  two  or  three  of  the 
delicacies  of  language  she  learnt  at  your  Academy.  I 
rather  like  to  hear  a  woman  swear.    It  embellishes  her!" 

Mountfalcon  took  counsel  of  his  parasite  as  to  the  end 
the  letter  could  be  made  to  serve.  Both  conscientiously 
agreed  that  Richard's  behaviour  to  his  wife  was  infamous, 
and  that  he  at  least  deserved  no  mercy.  "But,"  said  his 
lordship,  "it  won't  do  to  show  the  letter.  At  first  she'll 
be  swearing  it's  false,  and  then  she'll  stick  to  him  closer. 
I  know  the  sluts." 

"The  rule  of  contrary,"  said  Brayder,  carelessly.  "She 
must  see  the  trahison  with  her  eyes.  They  believe  their 
eyes.  There's  your  chance,  Mount.  You  step  in :  you  give 
her  revenge  and  consolation — two  birds  at  one  shot. 
That's  what  they  like." 

"You're  an  ass,  Brayder,"  the  nobleman  exclaimed. 
"You're  an  infernal  blackguard.  You  talk  of  this  little 
woman  as  if  she  and  other  women  were  all  of  a  piece.  I 
don't  see  anything  I  gain  by  this  confounded  letter.  Her 
husband's  a  brute — that's  clear." 

"Will  you  leave  it  to  me,  Mount?" 

'Be  damned  before  I  do !"  muttered  my  lord. 

"Thank  you.  Now  see  how  this  will  end.  You're  too 
soft,  Mount.    You'll  be  made  a  fool  of." 

"I  tell  you,  Brayder,  there's  nothing  to  be  done.  If  I 
carry  her  off — I've  been  on  the  point  of  doing  it  every  day 
— what'll  come  of  that?  She'll  look — I  can't  stand  her 
eyes — I  shall  be  a  fool — worse  off  with  her  than  I  am 
now." 

Mountfalcon  yawned  despondently.  "And  what  do  you 
think?"  he  pursued.  "Isn't  it  enough  to  make  a  fellow 
gnash  his  teeth?  She's"  ...  he  mentioned  something 
in  an  underbreath,  and  turned  red  as  he  said  it. 

"Hm!"  Brayder  put  up  his  mouth  and  rapped  the 
handle  of  his  cane  on  his  chin.  "That's  disagreeable, 
Mount.  You  don't  exactly  want  to  act  in  that  character. 
You  haven't  got  a  diploma.     Bother!" 

"Do  you  think  I  love  her  a  bit  less?"  broke  out  my 
lord  in  a  frenzy.  "By  heaven!  I'd  read  to  her  by  her 
bedside,  and  talk  that  infernal  history  to  her,  if  it  pleased 
her,  all  day  and  all  night." 


380      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"You're  evidently  graduating  for  a  midwife,  Mount." 

The  nobleman  appeared  silently  to  accept  the  imputa- 
tion. 

"What  do  they  say  in  town?"  he  asked  again. 

Brayder  said  the  solo  question  was,  whether  it  was 
maid,  wife,  or  widow. 

"I'll  go  to  her  this  evening,"  Mountfalcon  resumed, 
after — to  judge  by  the  cast  of  his  face — reflecting  deeply. 
"I'll  go  to  her  this  evening.  She  shall  know  what  infernal 
torment  she  makes  me  suffer." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  she  don't  know  it?" 

"Hasn't  an  idea — thinks  me  a  friend.  And  so,  by 
heaven !  I'll  be  to  her." 

"A — hm!"  went  the  Honourable  Peter.  "This  way  to 
the  sign  of  the  Green  Man,  ladies!" 

"Do  you  want  to  be  pitched  out  of  the  window, 
Brayder?" 

"Once  was  enough,  Mount.  The  Salvage  Man  is  strong. 
I  may  have  forgotten  the  trick  of  alighting  on  my  feet. 
There — there!  I'll  be  sworn  she's  excessively  innocent, 
and  thinks  you  a  disinterested  friend." 

"I'll  go  to  her  this  evening,"  Mountfalcon  repeated. 
"She  shall  know  what  damned  misery  it  is  to  see  her  in 
such  a  position.  I  can't  hold  out  any  longer.  Deceit's 
horrible  to  such  a  girl  as  that.  I'd  rather  have  her  curs- 
ing me  than  speaking  and  looking  as  she  does.  Dear  little 
girl ! — she's  only  a  child.  You  haven't  an  idea  how  sensi- 
ble that  little  woman  is." 

"Have  you?"  inquired  the  cunning  one. 

"My  belief  is,  Brayder,  that  there  are  angels  among 
women,"  said  Mountfalcon,  evading  his  parasite's  eye  as 
he  spoke. 

To  the  world.  Lord  Mountfalcon  was  the  thoroughly 
wicked  man ;  his  parasite  simply  ingeniously  dissipated. 
Full  many  a  man  of  God  had  thought  it  the  easier  task  to 
reclaim  the  Hon.  Peter. 

Lucy  received  her  noble  friend  by  firelight  that  evening, 
and  sat  much  in  the  shade.  She  offered  to  have  the  can- 
dles brought  in.  He  begged  her  to  allow  the  room  to 
remain  as  it  was.  "I  have  something  to  say  to  you,"  he 
observed  with  a  certain  solemnity. 

"Yes — to  me?"  said  Lucy,  quickly. 


A  BEERY  TO  THE  RESCUE  381 

Lord  Mountfalcon  knew  he  had  a  great  deal  to  say,  but 
how  to  say  it,  and  what  it  exactly  was,  he  did  not  know. 

"You  conceal  it  admirably,"  he  began,  "but  you  must 
be  very  lonely  here — I  fear,  unhappy." 

"I  should  have  been  lonely,  but  for  your  kindness,  my 
lord,"  said  Lucy.  "I  am  not  unhappy."  Her  face  was  in 
shade  and  could  not  belie  her. 

"Is  there  any  help  that  one  who  would  really  be  your 
friend  might  give  you,  Mrs.  Feverel  ?" 

"None  indeed  that  I  know  of,"  Lucy  replied.  "Who 
can  help  us  to  pay  for  our  sins?" 

"At  least  you  may  permit  me  to  endeavour  to  pay  my 
debts,  since  you  have  helped  me  to  wash  out  some  of  my 
sins." 

"Ah,  my  lord!"  said  Lucy,  not  displeased.  It  is  sweet 
for  a  woman  to  believe  she  has  drawn  the  serpent's  teeth. 

"I  tell  you  the  truth,"  Lord  Mountfalcon  went  on. 
"What  object  could  I  have  in  deceiving  you  ?  I  know  you 
quite  above  flattery — so  different  from  other  women!" 

"Oh,  pray,  do  not  say  that,"  interposed  Lucy. 

"According  to  my  experience,  then." 

"But  you  say  you  have  met  such — such  very  bad 
women." 

"I  have.  And  now  that  I  meet  a  good  one,  it  is  my 
misfortune." 

"Your  misfortune,  Lord  Mountfalcon?" 

'Yes,  and  I  might  say  more." 

His  lordship  held  impressively  mute. 

"How  strange  men  are !"  thought  Lucy.  "He  has  some 
unhappy  secret." 

Tom  Bakewell,  who  had  a  habit  of  coming  into  the  room 
on  various  pretences  during  the  nobleman's  visits,  put  a 
stop  to  the  revelation,  if  his  lordship  intended  to  make 
any. 

When  they  were  alone  again,  Lucy  said,  smiling:  "Do 
you  know,  I  am  always  ashamed  to  ask  you  to  begin  to 
read." 

Mountfalcon  stared.  "To  read? — oh!  ha!  yes!"  he  re- 
membered his  evening  duties.  "Very  happy,  I'm  sure. 
Let  me  see.     Where  were  we?" 

"The  life  of  the  Emperor  Julian.  But  indeed  I  feel 
quite  ashamed  to  ask  you  to  read,  my  lord.     It's  new  to 


382      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

me;  like  a  new  world — hearing  about  Emperors,  and 
armies,  and  things  that  really  have  been  on  the  earth  we 
walk  upon.  It  fills  my  mind.  But  it  must  have  eeased 
to  interest  you,  and  I  was  thinking  that  I  would  not  tease 
you  any  more." 

"Your  pleasure  is  mine,  Mrs.  Feverel.  'Pon  my  honour, 
I'd  read  till  I  was  hoarse,  to  hear  your  remarks." 

"Are  you  laughing  at  me?" 

"Do  I  look  so?" 

Lord  Mountfalcon  had  fine  full  eyes,  and  by  merely 
dropping  the  lids  he  could  appear  to  endow  them  with 
mental  expression. 

"No,  you  are  not,"  said  Lucy.  "I  must  thank  you  for 
your   forbearance." 

The  nobleman  went  on  his  honour  loudly. 

Now  it  was  an  object  of  Lucy's  to  have  him  reading; 
for  his  sake,  for  her  sake,  and  for  somebody  else's  sake; 
which  somebody  else  was  probably  considered  first  in  the 
matter.  When  ho  was  reading  to  her,  he  seemed  to  be 
legitimizing  his  presence  there;  and  though  she  had  no 
doubts  or  suspicions  whatever,  she  was  easier  in  her  heart 
while  she  had  him  employed  in  that  office.  So  she  rose 
to  fetch  the  book,  laid  it  open  on  the  table  at  his  lordship's 
elbow,  and  quietly  waited  to  ring  for  candles  when  he 
should  be  willing  to  commence. 

That  evening  Lord  Mountfalcon  could  not  get  himself 
up  to  the  farce,  and  he  felt  a  pity  for  the  strangely  in- 
nocent unprotected  child  with  anguish  hanging  over  her, 
that  withheld  the  words  he  wanted  to  speak,  or  insinuate. 
He  sat  silent  and  did  nothing. 

"What  I  do  not  like  him  for,"  said  Lucy,  meditatively, 
"is  his  changing  his  religion.  He  would  have  been  such 
a  hero,  but  for  that.     I  could  have  loved  him." 

'Who  is  it  you  could  have  loved,  Mrs.  Feverel?"  Lord 
Mountfalcon  asked. 

"The  Emperor  Julian." 

"Oli!  the  Emperor  Julian!  Well,  he  was  an  apostate: 
but  then,  you  know,  he  meant  what  he  was  about.  He 
didn't  even  do  it  for  a  woman." 

"For  a  woman!"  cried  Lucy.  "What  man  would  for  a 
woman?" 

"I  would." 


A  BERRY  TO   THE  RESCUE  383 

"You,  Lord  Mountfalcon  ?" 

"Yes.    I'd  turn  Catholic  to-morrow." 

"You  make  me  very  unhappy  if  you  say  that,  my  lord." 

"Then  I'll  unsay  it." 

Lucy  slightly  shuddered.  She  put  her  hand  upon  the 
bell  to  ring  for  lights. 

"Do  you  reject  a  convert,  Mrs.  Feverel  ?"  said  the  noble- 
man. 

"Oh  yes!  yes!  I  do.  One  who  does  not  give  his  con- 
science I  would  not  have." 

"If  he  gives  his  heart  and  body,  can  he  give  more?" 

Lucy's  hand  pressed  the  bell.  She  did  not  like  the 
doubtful  light  with  one  who  was  so  unscrupulous.  Lord 
Mountfalcon  had  never  spoken  in  this  way  before.  He 
spoke  better,  too.  She  missed  the  aristocratic  twang  in  his 
voice,  and  the  hesitation  for  words,  and  the  fluid  lordliness 
with  which  he  rolled  over  difficulties  in  speech. 

Simultaneously  with  the  sounding  of  the  bell  the  door 
opened,  and  presented  Tom  Bakewell.  There  was  a  double 
knock  at  the  same  instant  at  the  street  door.  Lucy  de- 
layed to  give  orders. 

"Can  it  be  a  letter,  Tom? — so  late?"  she  said,  changing 
colour.     "Pray  run  and  see." 

"That  an't  a  powst,"  Tom  remarked,  as  he  obeyed  his 
mistress. 

"Are  you  very  anxious  for  a  letter,  Mrs.  Eeverel  ?"  Lord 
Mountfalcon  inquired. 

"Oh,  no — yes,  I  am,  very!"  said  Lucy.  Her  quick  ear 
caught  the  tones  of  a  voice  she  remembered.  "That  dear 
old  thing  has  come  to  see  me,"  she  cried,  starting  up. 

Tom  ushered  a  bunch  of  black  satin  into  the  room. 

"Mrs.  Berry !"  said  Lucy,  running  up  to  her  and  kissing 
her. 

"Me,  my  darlin' !"  Mrs.  Berry,  breathless  and  rosy  with 
her  journey,  returned  the  salute.  "Me  truly  it  is,  in  fault 
of  a  better,  for  I  ain't  one  to  stand  by  and  give  the  devil 
his  licence — roamin'!  and  the  salt  sure  enough  have  spilte 
my  bride-gown  at  the  beginnin',  which  ain't  the  best  sign. 
Bless  ye ! — Oh,  here  he  is."  She  beheld  a  male  figure  in  a 
chair  by  the  half  light,  and  swung  round  to  address  him. 
"You  bad  man!"  she  held  aloft  one  of  her  fat  fingers, 
"I've  come  on  ye  like  a  bolt,  I  have,  and  goin'  to  make 


:;si   THE  ORDEAL  OF  UK 'HARD  FEVEREL 

ye  do  your  duty,  uaughty  boy!  But  you're  my  darlin' 
babe,"  she  melted,  as  was  her  custom,  "and  I'll  never  meet 
you  and  not  give  to  ye  the  kiss  of  a  mother." 

Before  Lord  Mountfalcon  could  find  time  to  expostulate 
the  soft  woman  had  him  by  the  neck,  and  was  down  among 
his  luxurious  whiskers. 

"Hal"  She  gave  a  smothered  shriek,  and  fell  back. 
''What  hair's   that?" 

Tom  Bakewell  just  then  illumined  the  transaction. 

"Oh,  my  gracious!"  Mrs.  Berry  breathed  with  horror, 
"I  been  and  kiss  a  strange  man !" 

Lucy,  half-laughing,  but  in  dreadful  concern,  begged  the 
noble  lord  to  excuse  the  woful  mistake. 

"Extremely  flattered,  highly  favoured,  I'm  sure,"  said 
his  lordship,  re-arranging  his  disconcerted  moustache; 
"may  I   beg  the  pleasure  of  an   introduction?" 

"My  husband's  dear  old  nurse — Mrs.  Berry,"  said  Lucy, 
taking  her  hand  to  lend  her  countenance.  "Lord  Mount- 
falcon,  Mrs.  Berry." 

Mrs.  Berry  sought  grace  while  she  performed  a  series  of 
apologetic  bobs,  and  wiped  the  perspiration  from  her  fore- 
head. 

Lucy  put,  her  in  a  chair:  Lord  Mountfalcon  asked  for 
an  account  of  her  passage  over  to  the  Island;  receiving 
distressingly  full  particulars,  by  which  it  was  revealed 
that  the  softness  of  her  heart  was  only  equalled  by  the 
weakness  of  her  stomach.  The  recital  calmed  Mrs.  Berry 
down. 

"Well,  and  where's  my — whore's  Mr.  Richard?  yer 
husband,  my  dear?"  Mrs.  Berry  turned  from  her  tale  to 
question. 

"Did  you  expect  to  see  him  here?"  said  Lucy,  in  a 
broken  voice 

"And  where  else,  my  love?  since  he  haven't  been  seen 
in  London  a  whole  fortnight." 

Lucy  did  not  speak. 

"We  will  dismiss  the  Emperor  Julian  till  to-morrow,  I 
think,"  said  Lord  Mountfalcon,  rising  and  bowing. 

Lucy  gave  him  her  hand  with  mute  thanks.  He  touched 
it  distantly,  embraced  Mrs.  Berry  in  a  farewell  bow.  and 
was  shown   out    of  the  house  by   Tom    Bakewell. 

The  moment  he  was  gone,  Mrs.  Berry  threw  up  her  arms. 


A  BERRY  TO   THE  RESCUE  385 

"Did  ye  ever  know  sich  a  horrid  thing  to  go  and  happen 
to  a  virtuous  woman  I"  she  exclaimed.  "I  could  cry  at  it, 
I  could!  To  be  goin'  and  kissin'  a  strange  hairy  man! 
Oh,  dear  me!  what's  comin'  next,  I  wonder?  Whiskers! 
thinks  I — for  I  know  the  touch  o'  whiskers — 't  ain't  like 
other  hair — what!  have  he  growed  a  crop  that  sudden, 
I  says  to  myself;  and  it  flashed  on  me  I  been  and  made 
a  awful  mistake!  and  the  lights  come  in,  and  I  see  that 
great  hairy  man — beggin'  his  pardon — nobleman,  and  if 
I  could  'a  dropped  through  the  floor  out  o'  sight  o'  men, 
drat  'em !  they're  al'ays  in  the  way,  that  they  are !" 

"Mrs.  Berry,"  Lucy  checked  her,  "did  you  expect  to  find 
him  here?" 

"Askin'  that  solemn?"  retorted  Berry.  "What  him? 
your  husband  ?  Of  course  I  did !  and  you  got  him — some- 
wheres  hid." 

"I  have  not  heard  from  my  husband  for  fifteen  days," 
said  Lucy,  and  her  tears  rolled  heavily  off  her  cheeks. 

"Not  heer  from  him ! — fifteen  days !"  Berry  echoed. 

"0  Mrs.  Berry!  dear  kind  Mrs.  Berry!  have  you  no 
news?  nothing  to  tell  me!  I've  borne  it  so  long.  They're 
cruel  to  me,  Mrs.  Berry.  Oh,  do  you  know  if  I  have 
offended  him — my  husband?  While  he  wrote  I  did  not 
complain.  I  could  live  on  his  letters  for  years.  But  not 
to  hear  from  him!  To  think  I  have  ruined  him,  and 
that  he  repents!  Do  they  want  to  take  him  from  me? 
Do  they  want  me  dead  ?  O  Mrs.  Berry !  I've  had  no  one 
to  speak  out  my  heart  to  all  this  time,  and  I  cannot, 
cannot  help  crying,  Mrs.  Berry!" 

Mrs.  Berry  was  inclined  to  be  miserable  at  what  she 
heard  from  Lucy's  lips,  and  she  was  herself  full  of  dire 
apprehension;  but  it  was  never  this  excellent  creature's 
system  to  be  miserable  in  company.  The  sight  of  a  sorrow 
that  was  not  positive,  and  could  not  refer  to  proof,  set  her 
resolutely  the  other  way. 

"Fiddle-faddle,"  she  said.  "I'd  like  to  see  him  repent! 
He  won't  find  anywheres  a  beauty  like  his  own  dear  little 
wife,  and  he  know  it.  Now,  look  you  here,  my  dear — you 
blessed  weepin'  pet — the  man  that  could  see  ye  with  that 
hair  of  yours  there  in  ruins,  and  he  backed  by  the  law,  and 
not  rush  into  your  arms  and  hold  ye  squeezed  for  life,  he 
ain't  got  much  man  in  him,  I  say ;  and  no  one  can  say  that 


38G      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

of  my  babe!  I  was  sayin',  look  here,  to  comfort  ye — oh, 
why,  to  be  sure  he've  got  some  surprise  for  ye.  And  so've 
I,  my  Iambi  Hark,  now!  His  father've  come  to  town, 
like  a  good  reasonable  man  at  last,  to  u-nite,  ye  both,  and 
bring  your  bodies  together,  as  your  hearts  is,  for  ever- 
last  in'.     Now  ain't  that  news?" 

"Ob!"  cried  Lucy,  "that  takes  my  last  hope  away.  I 
thought  he  had  gone  to  his  father."  She  burst  into  fresh 
tears. 

Mrs.  Berry  paused,  disturbed. 

"Belike  he's  travelling  after  him,"  she  suggested. 

'•Fifteen  days,  Mrs.  Berry!" 

"Ah,  fifteen  weeks,  my  dear,  after  sich  a  man  as  that. 
He's  a  regular  meteor,  is  Sir  Austin  Feverel,  Raynham 
Abbey.  Well,  so  hark  you  here.  I  says  to  myself,  that 
knows  him — for  I  did  think  my  babe  was  in  his  natural 
nest — I  says,  the  bar'net'll  never  write  for  you  both  to 
come  up  and  beg  forgiveness,  so  down  I'll  go  and  fetch 
you  up.  For  there  was  your  mistake,  my  dear,  ever  to 
leave  your  husband  to  go  away  from  ye  one  hour  in  a 
young  marriage.  It's  dangerous,  it's  mad,  it's  wrong, 
and  it's  only  to  bo  righted  by  your  obeyin'  of  me,  as  I 
commands  it:  for  I  has  my  fits,  though  I  am  a  soft 
'im.  Obey  me,  and  ye'll  be  happy  to-morrow — or  the  next 
to  it." 

Lucy  was  willing  to  see  comfort.  She  was  weary  of  her 
self-inflicted  martyrdom,  and  glad  to  give  herself  up  to 
somebody  else's  guidance  utterly. 

"But  why  does  he  not  write  to  me,  Mrs.  Berry  ?" 

"  'Cause,  'cause — who  can  tell  the  why  of  men,  my  dear? 
But  that  he  love  ye  faithful,  I'll  swear.  Haven't  he 
groaned  in  my  arms  that  he  couldn't  come  to  ye? — weak 
wretch !  Hasn't  he  swore  how  he  loved  ye  to  me,  poor 
young  man!  But  this  is  your  fault,  my  sweet.  Yes,  it 
be.  You  should  'a  followed  my  'dvice  at  the  fust — 'stead 
o'  going  into  your  'eroics  about  this  and  t'other."  Here 
Mrs.  Berry  poured  forth  fresh  sentences  on  matrimony, 
pointed  especially  at  young  couples.  "I  should  'a  been  a 
fool  if  I  hadn't  suffered  myself,"  she  confessed,  "so  I'll 
thank  my  Berry  if  I  makes  you  wise  in  season." 

Lucy  smoothed  her  ruddy  plump  cheeks,  and  gazed  up 
affectionately  into  the  soft  woman's  kind  brown  eyes.     En- 


A  BERRY  TO  THE  RESCUE  387 

dearing  phrases  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth.  And  as 
she  gazed  Lucy  blushed,  as  one  who  has  something  very 
secret  to  tell,  very  sweet,  very  strange,  but  cannot  quite 
bring  herself  to  speak  it. 

"Well !  there's  three  men  in  my  life  I  kissed,"  said  Mrs. 
Berry,  too  much  absorbed  in  her  extraordinary  adventure 
to  notice  the  young  wife's  struggling  bosom,  "three  men, 
and  one  nobleman !  He've  got  more  whisker  than  my 
Berry.  I  wonder  what  the  man  thought.  Ten  to  one 
he'll  think,  now,  I  was  glad  o'  my  chance — they're  that 
vain,  whether  they's  lords  or  commons.  How  was  I  to 
know?  I  nat'ral  thinks  none  but  her  husband'd  sit  in 
that  chair.  Ha!  and  in  the  dark?  and  alone  with  ye?" 
Mrs.  Berry  hardened  her  eyes,  "and  your  husband  away? 
What  do  this  mean  ?  Tell  to  me,  child,  what  it  mean  his 
bein'  here  alone  without  ere  a  candle?" 

"Lord  Mountfalcon  is  the  only  friend  I  have  here,"  said 
Lucy.  "He  is  very  kind.  He  comes  almost  every  even- 
ing." 

"Lord  Muntfalcon — that  his  name!"  Mrs.  Berry  ex- 
claimed. "I  been  that  flurried  by  the  man,  I  didn't  mind 
it  at  first.  He  comes  every  evenin',  and  your  husband  out 
o'  sight!  My  goodness  me!  it's  gettin'  worse  and  worse. 
And  what  do  he  come  for,  now,  ma'am  ?  Now  tell  me 
candid  what  ye  do  together  here  in  the  dark  of  an  evenin'." 

Mrs.  Berry  glanced  severely. 

"O  Mrs.  Berry !  please  not  to  speak  in  that  way — I  don't 
like  it,"  said  Lucy,  pouting. 

"What  do  he  come  for,  I  ask?" 

"Because  he  is  kind,  Mrs.  Berry.  He  sees  me  very 
lonely,  and  wishes  to  amuse  me.  And  he  tells  me  of 
things  I  know  nothing  about  and" 

"And  want's  to  be  a-teachin'  some  of  his  things,  may- 
hap," Mrs.  Berry  interrupted  with  a  ruffled  breast. 

"You  are  a  very  ungenerous,  suspicious,  naughty  old 
woman,"  said  Lucy,  chiding  her. 

"And  you're  a  silly,  unsuspectin'  little  bird,"  Mrs. 
Berry  retorted,  as  she  returned  her  taps  on  the  cheek. 
"You  haven't  told  me  what  ye  do  together,  and  what's 
his  excuse  for  comin'." 

"Well,  then,  Mrs.  Berry,  almost  every  evening  that  he 
comes  we  read  History,  and  he  explains  the  battles,  and 


388      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

talks  to  me  about  the  great  men.  And  he  says  I'm  not 
silly,  Mrs.  Berry." 

"That's  one  hit  o'  lime  on  your  wings,  my  bird.  History, 
indeed!  History  to  a  young  married  lovely  woman  alone 
in  the  dark!  a  pretty  History!  Why,  I  know  that,  man's 
name,  my  dear.  He's  a  notorious  living  rake,  that  Lord 
Muntfalcon.    No  woman's  safe  with  him." 

"Ah,  but  he  hasn't  deceived  me,  Mrs.  Berry.  He  has 
not  pretended  he  was  good." 

"More's  his  art,"  quoth  the  experienced  dame.  "So  you 
read  History  together  in  the  dark,  my  dear!" 

"I  was  unwell  to-night,  Mrs.  Berry.  I  wanted  him  not 
to  see  my  face.  Look!  there's  the  book  open  ready  for 
him  when  the  candles  come  in.  And  now,  you  dear  kind 
darling  old  thing,  let  me  kiss  you  for  coming  to  me.  I 
do  love  you.     Talk  of  other  things." 

"So  we  will,"  said  Mrs.  Berry  softening  to  Lucy's 
caresses.  "So  let  us.  A  nobleman,  indeed!  alone  with  a 
young  wife  in  the  dark,  and  she  sich  a  beauty!  I  say  this 
6hall  be  put  a  stop  to  now  and  henceforth,  on  the  spot  it 
shall!  lie  won't  meneuvele  Bessy  Berry  with  his  arts. 
There!  I  drop  him.     I'm  dyin'  for  a  cup  o'  tea,  my  dear." 

Lucy  got  up  to  ring  the  bell,  and  as  Mrs.  Berry,  in- 
capable of  quite  dropping  him,  was  continuing  to  say: 
"Let  him  go  and  boast  I  kiss  him;  he  ain't  nothin'  to  be 
'shamed  of  in  a  chaste  woman's  kiss — unawares — which 
men  don't'  get  too  often  in  their  lives,  I  can  assure  'em;" — 
her  eye  surveyed  Lucy's  figure. 

Lo,  when  Lucy  returned  to  her,  Mrs.  Berry  surrounded 
her  with  hor  arms,  and  drew  her  into  feminine  depths. 
"Oh,  you  blessed!"  she  cried  in  most  meaning  tone,  "you 
good,  lovin',  proper  little  wife,  you!" 

"What  is  it,  Mrs.  Berry!"  lisps  Lucy,  opening  the  most 
innocent  blue  eyes. 

"As  if  I  couldn't  see,  you  pet!  It  was  my  flurry  blinded 
me,  or  I'd  'a  marked  ye  the  fust  shock.  Thinkin'  to  de- 
ceive me!" 

Mrs.  Berry's  eyes  spoke  generations.  Lucy's  wavered ; 
she  coloured  all  over,  and  hid  her  face  on  the  bounteous 
breast  that  mounted  to  her. 

"You're  a  sweet,  one,"  murmured  tho  soft  woman,  pat- 
ting her  b*ck,  and  rocking  her.     "You're  a  rose,  you  are! 


A  BEEEY  TO   THE  KESCUE  389 

and  a  bud  on  your  stalk.  Haven't  told  a  word  to  your 
husband,  my  dear?"  she  asked  quickly. 

Lucy  shook  her  head,  looking  sly  and  shy. 

"That's  right.  We'll  give  him  a  surprise;  let  it  come 
all  at'  once  on  him,  and  thinks  he — losin'  breath — 'I'm  a 
father!'     Nor  a  hint  even  you  haven't  give  him?" 

Lucy  kissed  her,  to  indicate  it  was  quite  a  secret. 

"Oh!  you  are  a  sweet  one,"  said  Bessy  Berry,  and  rocked 
her  more  closely  and  lovingly. 

Then  these  two  had  a  whispered  conversation,  from 
which  let  all  of  male  persuasion  retire  a  space  nothing 
under  one  mile. 

Returning,  after  a  due  interval,  we  see  Mrs.  Berry 
counting  on  her  fingers'  ends.  Concluding  the  sum,  she 
cries  prophetically:  "Now  this  right  everything — a  baby 
in  the  balance!  Now  I  say  this  angel-infant  come  from 
on  high.  It's  God's  messenger,  my  love !  and  it's  not  wrong 
to  say  so.  He  thinks  you  worthy,  or  you  wouldn't  'a  had 
one — not  for  all  the  tryin'  in  the  world,  you  wouldn't, 
and  some  tries  hard  enough,  poor  creatures!  Now  let  us 
rejice  and  make  merry !  I'm  for  cry  in'  and  laughin',  one 
and  the  same.  This  is  the  blessed  seal  of  matrimony, 
which  Berry  never  stamp  on  me.  It's  be  hoped  it's  a  boy. 
Make  that  man  a  grandfather,  and  his  grandchild  a  son, 
and  you  got  him  safe.  Oh!  this  is  what  I  call  happiness, 
and  I'll  have  my  tea  a  little  stronger  in  consequence.  I 
declare  I  could  get  tipsy  to  know  this  joyful  news." 

So  Mrs.  Berry  carolled.  She  had  her  tea  a  little 
stronger.  She  ate  and  she  drank;  she  rejoiced  and  made 
merry.     The  bliss  of  the  chaste  was  hers. 

Says  Lucy  demurely:  "Now  you  know  why  I  read  His- 
tory, and  that  sort  of  books." 

"Do  I?"  replies  Berry.  "Belike  I  do.  Since  what  you 
done's  so  good,  my  darlin',  I'm  agreeable  to  anything.  A 
fig  for  all  the  lords !  They  can't  come  anigh  a  baby.  You 
may  read  Voyages  and  Travels,  my  dear,  and  Romances, 
"and  Tales  of  Love  and  War.  You  cut  the  riddle  in  your 
own  dear  way,  and  that's  all  I  cares  for." 

"No,  but  you  don't'  understand,"  persists  Lucy,  "i 
only  read  sensible  books,  and  talk  of  serious  things,  be- 
cause I'm  sure  .  v.  .  because  I  have  heard  say  .  .  .  dear 
Mrs.  Berry!  don't  you  understand  now?" 


390      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

Mrs.  Berry  smacked  her  knees.  "Only  to  think  of  her 
bein'  that  thoughtful!  and  she  a  Catholic,  too!  Never  tell 
me  that  people  of  one  religion  ain't  as  good  as  another, 
after  that.  Why,  you  want  to  make  him  a  historian,  to 
be  sure!  And  that  rake  of  a  lord  who've  been  comin' 
here  play  in'  at  wolf,  you  been  and  made  him — unbeknown 
to  himself — sort  o'  tutor  to  the  unborn  blessed!  Ha!  ha! 
say  that  little  women  ain't  got  art  ekal  to  the  cunningest 
of  'em.  Oh!  I  understand.  Why,  to  be  sure,  didn't  I 
know  a  lady,  a  widow  of  a  clergyman :  he  was  a  postermost 
child,  and  afore  his  birth  that  woman  read  nothin'  but 
Blair's  'Grave'  over  and  over  again,  from  the  end  to  the 
beginnin'; — that's  a  serious  book! — very  herd  readin'! — 
and  at  four  years  of  age  that  child  that  come  of  it  reelly 
was  the  piusest  infant! — he  was  like  a  little  curate.  His 
eyes  was  up;  he  talked  so  solemn."  Mrs.  Berry  imitated 
the  little  curate's  appearance  and  manner  of  speaking. 
"So  she  got  her  wish,  for  one!" 

But  at  this  lady  Lucy  laughed. 

They  chattered  on  happily  till  bedtime.  Lucy  arranged 
for  Mrs.  Berry  to  sleep  with  her.  "If  it's  not  dreadful  to 
ye,  my  sweet,  sleepin'  beside  a  woman,"  said  Mrs.  Berry. 
"I  know  it  were  to  me  shortly  after  my  Berry,  and  I  felt 
it.  It  don't  somehow  seem  nat'ral  after  matrimony — a 
woman  in  your  bed !  I  was  obliged  to  have  somebody, 
for  the  cold  sheets  do  give  ye  the  creeps  when  you've  been 
used  to  that  that's  different." 

Upstairs  they  went  together,  Lucy  not  sharing  these  ob- 
jections. Then  Lucy  opened  certain  drawers,  and  ex- 
hibited pretty  caps,  and  laced  linen,  all  adapted  for  a 
very  small  body,  all  the  work  of  her  own  hands :  and  Mrs. 
Berry  praised  them  and  her.  "You  been  guessing  a  boy — 
woman-like,"  she  said.  Then  they  cooed,  and  kissed,  and 
undressed  by  the  fire,  and  knelt  at  the  bedside,  with  their 
arms  about  each  other,  praying;  both  praying  for  the 
unborn  child;  and  Mrs.  Berry  pressed  Lucy's  waist  the 
moment  she  was  about  to  breathe  the  petition  to  heaven 
to  shield  and  bless  that  coming  life;  and  thereat  Lucy 
closed  to  her,  and  felt  a  strong  love  for  her.  Then  Lucy 
got  into  bed  first,  leaving  Berry  to  put  out  the  light,  and 
before  she  did  so,  Berry  leaned  over  her,  and  eyed  her 
roguishly,  saying,  "I  never  see  ye  like  this,  but  I'm  half 


A  BERRY  TO  THE  RESCUE  391 

in  love  with  ye  myself,  you  blushin'  beauty !  Sweet's  your 
eyes,  and  your  hair  do  take  one  so — lyin'  back.  I'd  never 
forgive  my  father  if  he  kep  me  away  from  ye  four-and- 
twenty  hours  just.  Husband  o'  that!"  Berry  pointed  at 
the  young  wife's  loveliness.  "Ye  look  so  ripe  with  kisses, 
and  there  they  are  a-languishin' ! —  .  .  .  You  never 
look  so  but  in  your  bed,  ye  beauty ! — just  as  it  ought  to 
be."  Lucy  had  to  pretend  to  rise  to  put  out  the  light 
before  Berry  would  give  up  her  amorous  chaste  soliloquy. 
Then  they  lay  in  bed,  and  Mrs.  Berry  fondled  her,  and 
arranged  for  their  departure  to-morrow,  and  reviewed 
Richard's  emotions  when  he  came  to  hear  he  was  going 
to  be  made  a  father  by  her,  and  hinted  at  Lucy's  delicious 
shivers  when  Richard  was  again  in  his  rightful  place, 
which  she,  Bessy  Berry,  now  usurped;  and  all  sorts  of 
amorous  sweet  things;  enough  to  make  one  fancy  the 
adage  subverted,  that  stolen  fruits  are  sweetest;  she  drew 
such  glowing  pictures  of  bliss  within  the  law  and  the 
limits  of  the  conscience,  till  at  last,  worn  out,  Lucy  mur- 
mured "Peepy,  dear  Berry,"  and  the  soft  woman  gradually 
ceased  her  chirp. 

Bessy  Berry  did  not  sleep.  She  lay  thinking  of  the 
sweet  brave  heart  beside  her,  and  listening  to  Lucy's 
breath  as  it  came  and  went;  squeezing  the  fair  sleeper's 
hand  now  and  then,  to  ease  her  love  as  her  reflections 
warmed.  A  storm  of  wind  came  howling  over  the  Hamp- 
shire hills,  and  sprang  white  foam  on  the  water,  and  shook 
the  bare  trees.  It  passed,  leaving  a  thin  cloth  of  snow  on 
the  wintry  land.  The  moon  shone  brilliantly.  Berry 
heard  the  house-dog  bark.  His  bark  was  savage  and  per- 
sistent. She  was  roused  by  the  noise.  By  and  by  she 
fancied  she  heard  a  movement  in  the  house ;  then  it  seemed 
to  her  that  the  house-door  opened.  She  cocked  her  ears, 
and  could  almost  make  out  voices  in  the  midnight  stillness. 
She  slipped  from  the  bed,  locked  and  bolted  the  door  of 
the  room,  assured  herself  of  Lucy's  unconsciousness,  and 
went  on  tiptoe  to  the  window.  The  trees  all  stood  white 
to  the  north;  the  ground  glittered;  the  cold  was  keen. 
Berry  wrapped  her  fat  arms  across  her  bosom,  and  peeped 
as  close  over  the  garden  as  the  situation  of  the  window 
permitted.  Berry  was  a  soft,  not  a  timid,  woman :  and  it 
happened  this  night  that  her  thoughts  were  above  the  fears 


392      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

of  the  dark.  She  was  sure  of  the  voices;  curiosity  without 
a  shade  of  alarm  held  her  on  the  watch;  and  gathering 
bundles  of  her  da 7- apparel  round  her  neck  and  shoulders, 
she  silenced  the  chattering  of  her  teeth  as  well  as  she 
could,  and  remained  stationary.  The  low  hum  of  the 
voices  came  to  a  break;  something  was  said  in  a  louder 
tone;  the  house-door  quietly  shut;  a  man  walked  out  of 
the  garden  into  the  road.  He  paused  opposite  her  window, 
and  Berry  let  the  blind  go  back  to  its  place,  and  peeped 
from  behind  an  edge  of  it.  He  was  in  the  shadow  of  the 
house,  so  that  it  was  impossible  to  discern  much  of  his  fig- 
ure. After  some  minutes  he  walked  rapidly  ftway,  and 
Berry  returned  to  the  bed  an  icicle,  from  which  Lucy's 
limbs  sensitively  shrank. 

Next  morning  Mrs.  Berry  asked  Tom  Bakewell  if  he 
had  been  disturbed  in  the  night.  Tom,  the  mysterious, 
said  he  had  slept  like  a  top.  Mrs.  Berry  went  to  the  gar- 
den. The  snow  was  partially  melted;  all  save  one  spot- 
just  under  the  portal,  and  there  she  saw  the  print  of  a 
man's  foot.  By  some  strange  guidance  it  occurred  to  her 
to  go  and  find  one  of  Richard's  boots.  She  did  so,  and^ 
unperceived,  she  measured  the  sole  of  the  boot  in  that 
solitary  footmark.  There  could  be  no  doubt  that  it  fitted. 
She  tried  it  from  heel  to  toe  a  dozen  times. 


CHAPTER  XL 
CLARE'S  DIARY 

Sir  Austin  Feverel  had  come  to  town  with  the  serenity 
of  a  philosopher  who  says,  'Tis  now  time;  and  the  satis- 
faction of  a  man  who  has  not  arrived  thereat  without  a 
struggle.  He  had  almost  forgiven  his  son.  His  deep  love 
for  him  had  well-nigh  shaken  loose  from  wounded  pride 
and  more  tenacious  vanity.  Stirrings  of  a  remote  sym- 
pathy for  the  creature  who  had  robbed  him  of  his  son 
and  hewed  at  his  System,  were  in  his  heart  of  hearts. 
This  he  knew;  and  in  his  own  mind  he  took  credit  for  his 
softness.  But  the  world  must  not  suppose  him  soft;  the 
world    must    think    he    was   still    acting   on   his    System. 


CLARE'S  DIARY  393 

Otherwise  what  would  his  long  absence  signify? — Some- 
thing highly  unphilosophical.  So,  though  love  was  strong, 
and  was  moving  him  to  a  straightforward  course,  the  last 
tug  of  vanity  drew  him  still  aslant. 

The  Aphorist  read  himself  so  well,  that  to  juggle  with 
himself  was  a  necessity.  As  he  wished  the  world  to  see 
him,  he  beheld  himself:  one  who  entirely  put  aside  mere 
personal  feelings:  one  in  whom  parental  duty,  based  on 
the  science  of  life,  was  paramount:  a  Scientific  Humanist, 
in  short. 

He  was,  therefore,  rather  surprised  at  a  coldness  in 
Lady  Blandish's  manner  when  he  did  appear.  "At  last  I" 
said  the  lady,  in  a  sad  way  that  sounded  reproachfully. 
Now  the  Scientific  Humanist  had,  of  course,  nothing  to 
reproach  himself  with. 

But  where  was  Richard  ? 

Adr:an  positively  averred  he  was  not  with  his  wife. 

"If  he  had  gone,"  said  the  baronet,  "he  would  have  an- 
ticipated me  by  a  few  hours." 

This,  when  repeated  to  Lady  Blandish,  should  have  pro- 
pitiated her,  and  shown  his  great  forgiveness.  She,  how- 
ever, sighed,  and  looked  at  him  wistfully. 

Their  converse  was  not  happy  and  deeply  intimate. 
Philosophy  did  not  seem  to  catch  her  mind;  and  fine 
phrases  encountered  a  rueful  assent,  more  flattering  to 
their  grandeur  than  to  their  influence. 

Days  went  by.  Richard  did  not  present  himself.  Sir 
Austin's  pitch  of  self-command  was  to  await  the  youth 
without  signs  of  impatience. 

Seeing  this,  the  lady  told  him  her  fears  for  Richard, 
c^nd  mentioned  the  rumour  of  him  that  was  about. 

"If,"  said  the  baronet,  "this  person,  his  wife,  is  what 
you  paint  her,  I  do  not  share  your  fears  for  him.  I  think 
too  well  of  him.  If  she  is  one  to  inspire  the  sacredness  of 
that  union,  I  think  too  well  of  him.     It  is  impossible." 

The  lady  saw  one  thing  to  be  done. 

"Call  her  to  you,"  she  said.  "Have  her  with  you  at 
Raynham.  Recognize  her.  It  is  the  disunion  and  doubt 
that  so  confuses  him  and  drives  him  wild.  I  confess  to 
you  I  hoped  he  had  gone  to  her.  It  seems  not.  If  she  is 
with  you  his  way  will  be  clear.    Will  you  do  that?" 

Science  is  notoriously  of  slow  movement.     Lady  Blan- 


304      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICPrARD  FEVEREL 

dish's  proposition  was  far  too  hasty  for  Sir  Austin. 
Women,  rapid  by  nature,  have  no  idea  of  science. 

"We  shall  see  her  there  in  time,  Emmeline.  At  present 
let  it  be  between   me  and  my  son." 

Ho  spoke  loftily.  In  truth  it  offended  him  to  be  asked 
to  do  anything,  when  he  had  just  brought  himself  to  do  so 
much. 

A  month  elapsed,  and  Richard  appeared  on  the  scene. 

The  meeting  between  him  and  his  father  was  not  what 
his  father  had  expected  and  had  crooned  over  in  the  Welsh 
mountains.  Richard  shook  his  hand  respectfully,  and  in- 
quired after  his  health  with  the  common  social  solicitude. 
He  then  said:  "During  your  absence,  sir,  I  have  taken  the 
liberty,  without  consulting  you,  to  do  something  in  which 
you  are  more  deeply  concerned  than  myself.  I  have  taken 
upon  myself  to  find  out  my  mother  and  place  her  under  my 
care.  I  trust  you  will  not  think  I  have  done  wrong.  I 
acted  as  I  thought  best." 

Sir  Austin  replied:  "You  are  of  an  age,  Richard,  to 
judge  for  yourself  in  such  a  case.  I  would  have  you 
simply  beware  of  deceiving  yourself  in  imagining  that  you 
considered  any  one  but  yourself  in  acting  as  you  did." 

"I  have  not  deceived  myself,  sir,"  said  Richard,  and  the 
interview  was  over.  Both  hated  an  exposure  of  the  feel- 
ings, and  in  that  both  were  satisfied:  but  the  baronet,  as 
one  who  loves,  hoped  and  looked  for  tones  indicative  of 
trouble  and  delight  in  the  deep  heart;  and  Richard  gave 
him  none  of  those.  The  young  man  did  not  even  face  him 
as  he  spoke:  if  their  eyes  met  by  chance,  Richard's  were 
defiantly  cold.     His  whole  bearing  was  ehanged. 

"This  rash  marriage  has  altered  him,"  said  the  very  just 
man  of  science  in  life:  and  that  meant:  "it  has  debased 
him." 

He  pursued  his  reflections.  "I  see  in  him  the  desperate 
maturity  of  a  suddenly-ripened  nature:  and  but  for  my 
faith  that  good  work  is  never  lost,  what  should  I  think  of 
the  toil  of  my  years?  Lost,  perhaps  to  me!  lost  to  him! 
It  may  show  itself  in  his  children." 

The  Philosopher,  we  may  conceive,  has  contentment  in 
benefiting  embryos:  but  it  was  a  somewhat  bitter  prospect 
to  Sir  Austin.     Bitterly  he  felt  the  injury  to  himself. 

Ono   little    incident   spoke   well    of   Richard.      A    poor 


CLARE'S  DIARY  395 

woman  called  at  the  hotel  while  he  was  missing.  The 
baronet  saw  her,  and  she  told  him  a  tale  that  threw 
Christian  light  on  one  part  of  Richard's  nature.  But  this 
might  gratify  the  father  in  Sir  Austin;  it  did  not  touch 
the  man  of  science.  A  Feverel,  his  son,  would  not  do 
less,  he  thought.  He  sat  down  deliberately  to  study  his 
son. 

No  definite  observation  enlightened  him.  Richard  ate 
and  drank;  joked  and  laughed.  He  was  generally  before 
Adrian  in  calling  for  a  fresh  bottle.  He  talked  easily  of 
current  topics;  his  gaiety  did  not  sound  forced.  In  all  he 
did,  nevertheless,  there  was  not  the  air  of  a  youth  who  sees 
a  future  before  him.  Sir  Austin  put  that  down.  It  might 
be  carelessness,  and  wanton  blood,  for  no  one  could  say  he 
had  much  on  his  mind.  The  man  of  science  was  not 
reckoning  that  Richard  also  might  have  learned  to  act 
and  wear  a  mask.  Dead  subjects — this  is  to  say,  people 
not  on  their  guard — he  could  penetrate  and  dissect.  It  i3 
by  a  rare  chance,  as  scientific  men  well  know,  that  one 
has  an  opportunity  of  examining  the  structure  of  the 
living. 

However,  that  rare  chance  was  granted  to  Sir  Austin. 
They  were  engaged  to  dine  with  Mrs.  Doria  at  the  Foreys', 
and  walked  down  to  her  in  the  afternoon,  father  and  son 
arm-in-arm,  Adrian  beside  them.  Previously  the  offended 
father  had  condescended  to  inform  his  son  that  it  would 
shortly  be  time  for  him  to  return  to  his  wife,  indicating 
that  arrangements  would  ultimately  be  ordered  to  receive 
her  at  Raynham.  Richard  had  replied  nothing;  which 
might  mean  excess  of  gratitude,  or  hypocrisy  in  conceal- 
ing his  pleasure,  or  any  one  of  the  thousand  shifts  by 
which  gratified  human  nature  expresses  itself  when  all  is 
made  ,o  run  smooth  with  it.  Now  Mrs.  Berry  had  her 
surprise  ready  charged  for  the  young  husband.  She  had 
Lucy  in  her  own  house  waiting  for  him.  Every  day  she 
expected  him  to  call  and  be  overcome  by  the  rapturous 
surprise,  and  every  day,  knowing  his  habit  of  frequenting 
the  park,  she  marched  Lucy  thither,  under  the  plea  that 
Master  Richard,  whom  she  had  already  christened,  should 
have  an  airing. 

The  round  of  the  red  winter  sun  was  behind  the  bare 
Kensington  chestnuts,  when  these  two  parties  met.    Hap- 


39G      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

pily  for  Lucy  and  the  hope  she  bore  in  her  bosom,  she 
was  perversely  admiring  a  fair  horsewoman  galloping  by 
at  the  moment.  Mrs.  Berry  plucked  at  her  gown  once  or 
twice,  to  prepare  her  eyes  for  the  shock,  but  Lucy's  head 
was  still  half  averted,  and  thinks  Mrs.  Berry,  "'Twon'l 
hurt  her  if  she  go  into  his  arms  head  foremost."  They  were 
close;  Mrs.  Berry  performed  the  bob  preliminary.  Richard 
held  her  silent  with  a  terrible  face;  he  grasped  her  arm, 
and  put  her  behind  him.  Other  people  intervened.  Lucy 
saw  nothing  to  account  for  Berry's  excessive  flutter. 
Berry  threw  it  on  the  air  and  some  breakfast  bacon,  which, 
she  said,  she  knew  in  the  morning  while  she  ate  it,  was 
bad  for  the  bile,  and  which  probably  was  the  cause  of  her 
bursting  into  tears,  much  to  Lucy's  astonishment. 

"What  you  ate  makes  you  cry,  Mrs.  Berry?" 

"It's    all "   Mrs.    Berry  pressed   at   her   heart    and 

leaned  sideways,  "it's  all  stomach,  my  dear.  Don't  ye 
mind,"  and  becoming  aware  of  her  unfashionable  be- 
haviour, she  trailed  off  to  the  shelter  of  the  elms. 

"You  have  a  singular  manner  with  old  ladies,"  said  Sir 
Austin  to  his  son,  after  Berry  had  been  swept  aside. 
"Scarcely  courteous.  She  behaved  like  a  mad  woman,  cer- 
tainly.— Are  you  ill,  my  son?" 

Richard  was  death-pale,  his  strong  form  smitten 
through  with  weakness.  The  baronet  sought  Adrian's 
eye.  Adrian  had  seen  Lucy  as  they  passed,  and  he  had  a 
glimpse  of  Richard's  countenance  while  disposing  of 
Berry.  Had  Lucy  recognized  them,  he  would  have  gone  to 
her  unhesitatingly.  As  she  did  not,  he  thought  it  well, 
under  the  circumstances,  to  leave  matters  as  they  were. 
He  answered  the  baronet's  look  with  a  shrug. 

"Are  you  ill,  Richard?"  Sir  Austin  again  asked  his  son. 

"Come  on,  sir!  come  on!"  cried  Richard. 

His  father's  further  meditations,  as  they  stepped  briskly 
to  the  Foreys',  gave  poor  Berry  a  character  which  one  who 
lectures  on  matrimony,  and  has  kissed  but  three  men  in 
her  life,  shrieks  to  hear  the  very  title  of. 

"Richard  will  go  to  his  wife  to-morrow,"  Sir  Austin 
said  to  Adrian  some  time  before  they  went  in  to  dinner. 

Adrian  asked  him  if  he  had  chanced  to  see  a  young  fair- 
haired  lady  by  the  side  of  the  old  one  Richard  had  treated 
so  peculiarly;  and  to  the  baronet's  acknowledgment  that 


CLAKE'S  DIARY  39* 

lie  remembered  to  have  observed  sLch  _  pyrson,  Adrian 
said:  "That  was  his  wife,  sir." 

Sir  Austin  could  not  dissect  the  living  subject.  As  if  a 
bullet  had  torn  open  the  young  man's  skull,  and  some  blast 
of  battle  laid  his  palpitating  organization  bare,  he  watched 
every  motion  of  his  brain  and  his  heart;  and  with  the 
grief  and  terror  of  one  whose  mental  habit  was  ever  to 
pierce  to  extremes.  Not  altogether  conscious  that  he  had 
hitherto  played  with  life,  he  felt  that  he  was  suddenly 
plunged  into  the  stormful  reality  of  it.  He  projected  to 
speak  plainly  to  his  son  on  all  point's  that  night. 

"Richard  is  very  gay,"  Mrs.  Doria  whispered  her 
brother. 

"All  will  be  right  with  him  to-morrow,"  he  replied ;  for 
the  game  had  been  in  his  hands  so  long,  so  long  had  he 
been  the  God  of  the  machine,  that  having  once  resolved 
to  speak  plainly  and  to  act,  he  was  to  a  certain  extent 
secure,  bad  as  the  thing  to  mend  might  be. 

"I  notice  he  has  rather  a  wild  laugh — I  don't  exactly 
like  his  eyes,"  said  Mrs.  Doria. 

"You  will  see  a  change  in  him  to-morrow,"  the  man  of 
science  remarked. 

It  was  reserved  for  Mrs.  Doria  herself  to  experience  that 
change.  In  the  middle  of  the  dinner  a  telegraphic  message 
from  her  son-in-law,  worthy  John  Todhunter,  reached  the 
house,  stating  that  Clare  was  alarmingly  ill,  bidding  her 
como  instantly.  She  cast  about  for  some  one  to  accom- 
pany her,  and  fixed  on  Richard.  Before  he  would  give  his 
consent  for  Richard  to  go,  Sir  Austin  desired  to  speak 
with  him  apart,  and  in  that  interview  he  said  to  his  son; 
"My  dear  Richard!  it  was  my  intention  that  we  should 
come  to  an  understanding  together  this  night.  But  the 
time  is  short — poor  Helen  cannot  spare  many  minutes. 
Let  me  then  say  that  you  deceived  me,  and  that  I  forgive 
you.  We  fix  our  seal  on  the  past.  You  will  bring  your 
wife  to  me  when  you  return."  And  very  cheerfully  the 
baronet  looked  down  on  the  generous  future  he  thus 
founded. 

"Will  you  have  her  at  Raynham  at  once,  sir?"  said 
Richard. 

"Yes,  my  son,  when  you  bring  her." 

"Are  you  mocking  me,  sir?" 


39S      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"Pray,  what  d     you  mean?" 

"I  ask  you  j>*  receive  her  at  once." 

"Well!  the  delay  cannot  be  long.  I  do  not  apprehend 
that  you  will  be  kept  from  your  happiness  many  days." 

"I  think  it  will  be  some  time,  sir!"  said  Richard,  sigh- 
ing deeply. 

"And  what  mental  freak  is  this  that  can  induce  you  to 
postpone  it  and  play  with  your  first  duty?" 

"What  is  my  first  duty,  sir  ?" 

"Since  you  are  married,  to  be  with  your  wife." 

"I  have  heard  that  from  an  old  woman  called  Berry!" 
said  Richard  to  himself,  not  intending  irony. 

"Will  you  receive  her  at  once?"  he  asked  resolutely. 

The  baronet  was  clouded  by  his  son's  reception  of  his 
graciousness.  His  grateful  prospect  had  formerly  been 
Richard's  marriage — the  culmination  of  his  System. 
Richard  had  destroyed  his  participation  in  that.  He  now 
looked  for  a  pretty  scene  in  recompense : — Richard  leading 
up  his  wife  to  him,  and  both  being  welcomed  by  him  pa- 
ternally, and  so  held  one  ostentatious  minute  in  his  em- 
brace. 

He  said :  "Before  you  return,  I  demur  to  receiving 
her." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  replied  his  son,  and  stood  as  if  he  had 
spoken  all. 

"Really  you  tempt  me  to  fancy  you  already  regret  your 
rash  proceeding!"  the  baronet  exclaimed;  and  the  next 
moment  it  pained  him  he  had  uttered  the  words,  Richard's 
eyes  were  so  sorrowfully  fierce.  It  pained  him,  but  he 
divined  in  that  look  a  history,  and  he  could  not  refrain 
from  glancing  acutely  and  asking:  "Do  you?" 

"Regret  it,  sir?"  The  question  aroused  one  of  those 
struggles  in  the  young  man's  breast  which  *  passionate 
storm  of  tears  may  still,  and  which  sink  like  leaden  death 
into  the  soul  when  tears  come  not.  Richard's  eyes  had  the 
light  of  the  desert. 

"Do  you?"  his  father  repeated.  "You  tempt  me — I 
almost  fear  you  do."  At  the  thought — for  he  expressed 
his  mind — the  pity  that  he  had  for  Richard  was  not  pure 
gold. 

"Ask  me  what  I  think  of  her,  sir!  Ask  me  what  she  is! 
Ask  me  what  it  is  to  have  taken  one  of  God's  precious 


CLAKE'S  DIARY  399 

angels  and  chained  her  to  misery!  Ask  me  what  it  is  to 
have  plunged  a  sword  into  her  heart,  and  to  stand  over 
her  and  see  such  a  creature  bleeding!  Do  I  regret  that? 
Why,  yes,  I  do!    Would  you?" 

His  eyes  flew  hard  at  his  father  under  the  ridge  of  his 
eyebrows. 

Sir  Austin  winced  and  reddened.  Did  he  understand? 
There  is  ever  in  the  mind's  eye  a  certain  wilfulness.  We 
see  and  understand;  we  see  and  won't  understand. 

"Tell  me  why  you  passed  by  her  as  you  did  this  after- 
noon," he  said  gravely:  and  in  the  same  voice  Richard 
answered:  "I  passed  her  because  I  could  not  do  other- 
wise." 

"Your  wife,  Richard?" 

"Yes!  my  wife!" 

"If  she  had  seen  you,  Richard?" 

"God  spared  her  that!" 

Mrs.  Doria,  bustling  in  practical  haste,  and  bearing 
Richard's  hat  and  greatcoat  in  her  energetic  hands,  came 
between  them  at  this  juncture.  Dimples  of  commiseration 
were  in  her  cheeks  while  she  kissed  her  brother's  perplexed 
forehead.  She  forgot  her  trouble  about  Clare,  deploring 
his  fatuity. 

Sir  Austin  was  forced  to  let  his  son  depart.  As  of  old, 
he  took  counsel  with  Adrian,  and  the  wise  youth  was 
soothing.  "Somebody  has  kissed  him,  sir,  and  the  chaste 
boy  can't  get  over  it."  This  absurd  suggestion  did  more 
to  appease  the  baronet  than  if  Adrian  had  given  a  veritable 
reasonable  key  to  Richard's  conduct.  It  set  him  thinking 
that  it  might  be  a  prudish  strain  in  the  young  man's 
mind,  due  to  the  System  in  difficulties. 

"I  may  have  been  wrong  in  one  thing,"  he  said,  with  an 
air  of  the  utmost  doubt  of  it.  "I,  perhaps,  was  wrong  in 
allowing  him  so  much  liberty  during  his  probation." 

Adrian  pointed  out  to  him  that  he  had  distinctly  com- 
manded it. 

"Yes,  yes ;  that  is  on  me." 

His  was  an  order  of  mind  that  would  accept  the  most 
burdensome  charges,  and  by  some  species  of  moral  usury 
make  a  profit  out  of  them. 

Clare  was  little  talked  of.  Adrian  attributed  the  em- 
ployment of  the  telegraph  to  John  Todhunter's  uxorious 


"400      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

distress  at  a  toothache,  or  possibly  the  first  symptoms  of 
an  heir  to  his  house. 

"That  child's  mind  has  disease  in  it.  She  is  not  sound," 
said  the  baronet. 

On  the  door-step  of  the  hotel,  when  they  returned,  stood 
Mrs.  Berry.  Her  wish  to  speak  a  few  words  with  the 
baronet  reverent ially  communicated,  she  was  ushered  up- 
stairs into  his  room. 

Mrs.  Berry  compressed  her  person  in  the  chair  she  was> 
beckoned  to  occupy. 

"Well,  ma'am,  you  have  something  to  say,"  observed  the 
baronet,  for  she  seemed  loath  to  commence. 

"Wishin'  I  hadn't:"  Mrs.  Berry  took  him  up,  and  mind- 
ful of  the  good  rule  to  begin  at  the  beginning,  pursued: 
"I  dare  say,  Sir  Austin,  you  don't  remember  me,  and  I 
little  thought  when  last  we  parted  our  meeting  'd  be  like 
this.  Twenty  year  don't  go  over  one  without  showin'  it, 
no  more  than  twenty  ox.  It's  a  might  o'  time, — twenty 
year!     Leastways  not  quite  twenty,  it  ain't." 

"Round  figures  are  best,"  Adrian  remarked. 

"In  them  round  figures  a  be-loved  son  have  growed  up, 
and  got  himself  married !"  said  Mrs.  Berry,  diving  straight 
into  the  case. 

Sir  Austin  then  learnt  that  he  had  before  him  the 
culprit  who  had  assisted  his  son  in  that  venture.  It  was 
a  stretch  of  his  patience  to  hear  himself  addressed  on  a 
family  matter,  but  he  was  naturally  courteous. 

"He  came  to  my  house,  Sir  Austin,  a  stranger!  If 
twenty  year  alters  us  as  have  knowed  each  other  on  the 
earth,  how  must  they  alter  they  that  we  parted  with  just 
come  from  heaven!  And  a  heavenly  babe  he  were!  se 
sweet!  se  strong!  so  fat!" 

Adrian  laughed  aloud. 

Mrs.  Berry  bumped  a  curtsey  to  him  in  her  chair,  con- 
tinuing: "1  wished  afore  I  spoke  to  say  how  thankful  am  I 
bound  to  be  for  my  pension  not  cut  short,  as  have  offended 
so,  but  that  I  know  Sir  Austin  Feverel,  Raynham  Abbey, 
ain't  one  o'  them  that  likes  to  hear  their  good  deeds  pub- 
lished. And  a  pension  to  me  now,  it's  something  more 
than  it  were.  For  a  pension  and  pretty  rosy  cheeks  in  a 
maid,  which  I  was — that's  a  bait  many  a  man  '11  bite,  that 
won't  so  a  forsaken  wife!" 


CLAKE'S  DIARY  401 

"If  you  will  speak  to  the  point,  ma'am,  I  will  listen  to 
you,"  the  baronet  interrupted  her. 

"It's  the  beginnin'  that's  the  worst,  and  that's  over, 
thank  the  Lord!  So  I'll  speak,  Sir  Austin,  and  say  my 
say: — Lord  speed  me!  Believin'  our  idees  o'  matrimony 
to  be  sim'lar,  then,  I'll  say,  once  married — married  for 
life!  Yes!  I  don't  even  like  widows.  For  I  can't  stop  at 
the  grave.  Not  at  the  tomb  I  can't  stop.  My  husband's 
my  husband,  and  if  I'm  a  body  at  the  Resurrection,  I  say 
speaking  humbly,  my  Berry  is  the  husband  o'  my  body; 
and  to  think  of  two  claimin'  of  me  then — it  makes  me  hot 
all  over.  Such  is  my  notion  of  that  state  'tween  man  and 
woman.  No  givin'  in  marriage,  o'  course  I  know,  and  if 
so  I'm  single." 

The  baronet  suppressed  a  smile.  "Really,  my  good 
woman,  you  wander  very  much." 

"Beggin'  pardon,  Sir  Austin ;  but  I  has  my  point  before 
me  all  the  same,  and  I'm  comin'  to  it.  Ac-knowledgin' 
our  error,  it's  done,  and  bein'  done,  it's  writ  aloft.  Oh! 
if  you  only  knew  what  a  sweet  young  creature  she  be! 
Indeed  'taint  all  of  humble  birth  that's  unworthy,  Sir 
Austin.  And  she  got  her  idees,  too.  She  reads  History! 
She  talk  that  sensible  as  would  surprise  ye.  But  for  all 
that  she's  a  prey  to  the  artful  o'  men — unpertected.  And 
it's  a  young  marriage — but  there's  no  fear  for  her,  as  far 
as  she  go.  The  fear's  t'other  way.  There's  that  in  a  man 
— at  the  commencement — which  make  of  him  Lord  knows 
what,  if  you  any  way  interferes:  whereas  a  woman  bides 
quiet!  It's  consolation  catch  her,  which  is  what  we  mean 
by  seducin'.    Whereas  a  man — he's  a  savage!" 

Sir  Austin  turned  his  face  to  Adrian,  who  was  listening 
;with  huge  delight. 

"Well,  ma'am,  I  see  you  have  something  in  your  mind, 
if  you  would  only  come  to  it  quickly." 

"Then  here's  my  point,  Sir  Austin.  I  say  you  bred  him 
so  as  there  ain't  another  young  gentleman  like  him  in 
England,  and  proud  he  make  me.  And  as  for  her,  I'll  risk 
sayin' — it's  done,  and  no  harm — you  might  search  Eng- 
land through,  and  nowhere  will  ye  find  a  maid  that's  his 
match  like  his  own  wife.  Then  there  they  be.  Are  they 
together  as  should  be?  O  Lord  no!  Months  they  been 
divided.     Then  she  all  lonely  and  exposed,  I  went,  and 


402       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RIC11AKI)  FEVEREL 

fetched  her  out  of  seducers'  ways — which  they  may  say 
what  they  like,  hut  the  inn'cent  is  most  open  to  when 
they're  healthy  and  confidin' — I  fetch  her,  and — the  lib- 
erty— boxed  her  safe  in  my  own  house.  So  much  for  that 
sweet!  That  you  may  do  with  women.  But  it's  him — 
Mr.  Richard — I  am  bold,  I  know,  but  there — I'm  in  for 
it,  and  the  Lord  '11  help  me!  It's  him,  Sir  Austin,  in  this 
great  metropolis,  warm  from  a  young  marriage.  It's  him, 
and — I  say  nothin'  of  her,  and  how  sweet  she  bears  it,  and 
it's  eating  her  at  a  time  when  Natur'  should  have  no  other 
trouble  but  the  one  that's  goin'  on — it's  him,  and  I  ask — 
so  bold — shall  there — and  a  Christian  gentleman  his 
father — shall  there  be  a  tug  'tween  him  as  a  son  and  him 
as  a  husband — soon  to  be  somethin'  else?  I  speak  bold 
out — I'd  have  sons  obey  their  fathers,  but  the  priest's 
words  spoke  over  him,  which  they're  now  in  my  ears,  I 
say  I  ain't  a  doubt  on  earth — I'm  sure  there  ain't  one  in 
heaven — which  dooty's  the  holier  of  the  two." 

Sir  Austin  heard  her  to  an  end.  Their  views  on  the 
junction  of  the  sexes  were  undoubtedly  akin.  To  be  lec- 
tured on  his  prime  subject,  however,  was  slightly  disagree- 
able, and  to  be  obliged  mentally  to  assent  to  this  old  lady's 
doctrine  was  rather  humiliating,  when  it  could  not  be 
averred  that  he  had  latterly  followed  it  out.  He  sat  cross- 
legged  and  silent,  a  finger  to  his  temple. 

"One  gets  so  addle-pated  thinkin'  many  things,"  said 
Mrs.  Berry,  simply.  "That's  why  we  see  wonder  clever 
people  goin'  wrong — to  my  mind.  I  think  it's  al'ays  the 
plan  in  a  dielemmer  to  pray  God  and  walk  forward." 

The  keen-witted  soft  woman  was  tracking  the  baronet's 
thoughts,  and  she  had  absolutely  run  him  down  and  taken 
an  explanation  out'  of  his  mouth,  by  which  Mrs.  Berry  was 
to  have  been  informed  that  he  had  acted  from  a  principle 
of  his  own,  and  devolved  a  wisdom  3he  could  not  be  ex- 
pected to  comprehend. 

Of  course  he  became  advised  immediately  that  it  would 
be  waste  of  time  to  direct  such  an  explanation  to  her 
inferior  capacity. 

He  gave  her  his  hand,  saying,  "My  son  has  gone  out  of 
town  to  see  his  cousin,  who  is  ill.  He  will  return  in  two  or 
three  days,  and  then  they  will  both  come  to  me  at  Rayn- 
ham." 


CLARE'S  DIARY  403 

Mrs.  Berry  took  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  and  went  half- 
way to  the  floor  perpendicularly.  "He  pass  her  like  a 
stranger  in  the  park  this  evenin',"  she  faltered. 

"Ah?"  said  the  baronet.  "Yes,  well!  they  will  be  at 
Raynham  before  the  week  is  over." 

Mrs.  Berry  was  not  quite  satisfied.  "Not  of  his  own 
accord  he  pass  that  sweet  young  wife  of  his  like  a  stranger 
this  day,  Sir  Austin!" 

"I  must  beg  you  not  to  intrude  further,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Berry  bobbed  her  bunch  of  a  body  out  of  the 
room. 

"All's  well  as  ends  well,"  she  said  to  herself.  "It's  bad 
inquirin'  too  close  among  men.  We  must  take  'em  some- 
thin'  like  Providence — as  they  come.  Thank  heaven!  I 
kep'  back  the  baby." 

In  Mrs.  Berry's  eyes  the  baby  was  the  victorious  reserve. 

Adrian  asked  his  chief  what  he  thought  of  that  speci- 
men of  women. 

"I  think  I  have  not  met  a  better  in  my  life,"  said  the 
baronet,  mingling  praise  and  sarcasm. 

Clare  lies  in  her  bed  as  placid  as  in  the  days  when  she 
breathed ;  her  white  hands  stretched  their  length  along  the 
sheets,  at  peace  from  head  to  feet.  She  needs  iron  no 
more.  Richard  is  face  to  face  with  death  for  the  first 
time.     He  sees  the  sculpture  of  clay — the  spark  gone. 

Clare  gave  her  mother  the  welcome  of  the  dead.  This 
child  would  have  spoken  nothing  but  kind  commonplaces 
had  she  been  alive.  She  was  dead,  and  none  knew  her 
malady.     On  her  fourth  finger  were  two  wedding-ring's. 

When  hours  of  weeping  had  silenced  the  mother's  an- 
guish, she,  for  some  comfort  she  saw  in  it,  pointed  out 
that  strange  thing  to  Richard,  speaking  low  in  the  cham- 
ber of  the  dead;  and  then  he  learnt  that  it  was  his  own 
lost  ring  Clare  wore  in  the  two  worlds.  He  learnt  from 
her  husband  that  Clare's  last  request  had  been  that  neither 
of  the  rings  should  be  removed.  She  had  written  it;  she 
would  not  speak  it. 

"I  beg  of  my  husband,  and  all  kind  people  who  may  have 
the  care  of  me  between  this  and  the  grave,  to  bury  me  with 
my  hands  untouched." 

The  tracing  of  the  words  showed  the  bodily  torment  she 


404      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

was  suffering,  as  she  wrote  them  on  a  scrap  of  paper  found 
beside  her  pillow. 

In  wonder,  as  the  dim  idea  grew  from  the  waving  of 
Claret  dead  hand,  Richard  paced  the  house,  and  hung 
about  the  awful  room;  dreading  to  enter  it,  reluctant  to 
quit  it.  The  secret  Clare  had  buried  while  she  lived,  arose 
with  her  death.  He  saw  it  play  like  flame  across  her 
marble  features.  The  memory  of  her  voice  was  like  a 
knife  at  his  nerves.  His  coldness  to  her  started  up  ac- 
cusingly:  her  meekness  was  bitter  blame. 

On  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day,  her  mother  came  to 
him  in  his  bedroom,  with  a  face  so  white  that  he  asked 
himself  if  aught  worse  could  happen  to  a  mother  than  the 
loss  of  her  child.  Choking  she  said  to  him,  "Read  this," 
and  thrust  a  leather-bound  pocket-book  trembling  in  his 
hand.  She  would  not  breathe  to  him  what  it  was.  She 
entreated  him  not  to  open  it  before  her. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  "tell  me  what  you  think.  John 
must  not  hear  of  it.  I  have  nobody  to  consult  but  you — 
O  Richard!" 

"My  Diary"  was  written  in  the  round  hand  of  Clare's 
childhood  on  the  first  page.  The  first  name  his  eye  en- 
countered was  his  own. 

"Richard's  fourteenth  birthday.  I  have  worked  him  a 
purse  and  put  it  under  his  pillow,  because  he  is  going  to 
have  plenty  of  money.  He  does  not  notice  me  now  because 
he  has  a  friend  now,  and  he  is  ugly,  but  Richard  is  not, 
and  never  will  be." 

The  occurrences  of  that  day  were  subsequently  recorded, 
and  a  childish  prayer  to  God  for  him  set  down.  Step  by 
step  he  saw  her  growing  mind  in  his  history.  As  she  ad- 
vanced in  years  she  began  to  look  back,  and  made  much  of 
little  trivial  remembrances,  all  bearing  upon  him. 

"We  went  into  the  fields  and  gathered  cowslips,  together, 
and  pelted  each  other,  and  I  told  him  he  used  to  call  them 
'coals-sleeps'  when  he  was  a  baby,  and  he  was  angry  at 
my  telling  him,  for  he  does  not  like  to  be  told  he  was  ever 
a  baby." 

He  remembered  the  incident,  and  remembered  his  stupid 
scorn  of  her  meek  affection.  Little  Clare!  how  she  lived 
before  him  in  her  white  dress  and  pink  ribbons,  and  soft 
dark  eyes!     Upstairs  she  was  lying  dead.     He  read  on: 


CLARE'S  DIARY  405 

"Mama  says  there  is  no  one  in  the  world  like  Richard, 
and  I  am  sure  there  is  not,  not  in  the  whole  world.  He 
says  he  is  going  to  be  a  great  General  and  going  to  the 
wars.  If  he  does  I  shall  dress  myself  as  a  boy  and  go 
after  him,  and  he  will  not  know  me  till  I  am  wounded. 
Oh  I  pray  he  will  never,  never  be  wounded.  I  wonder 
what  I  should  feel  if  Richard  was  ever  to  die." 

Upstairs  Clare  was  lying  dead. 

"Lady  Blandish  said  there  was  a  likeness  between  Rich- 
ard and  me.  Richard  said  I  hope  I  do  not  hang  down  my 
head  as  she  does.  He  is  angry  with  me  because  I  do  not 
look  people  in  the  face  and  speak  out,  but  I  know  I  am  not 
looking  after  earthworms." 

Yes.  He  had  told  her  that.  A  shiver  seized  him  at  the 
recollection. 

Then  it  came  to  a  period  when  the  words :  "Richard 
kissed  me,"  stood  by  themselves,  and  marked  a  day  in  her 
life. 

Afterwards  it  was  solemnly  discovered  that  Richard 
wrote  poetry.  He  read  one  of  his  old  forgotten  composi- 
tions penned  when  he  had  that  ambition. 

"Thy  truth  to  me  is  truer 

Than  horse,  or  dog,  or  blade; 
Thy  vows  to  me  are  fewer 
Than  ever  maiden  made. 

Thou    steppest   from   thy   splendour 

To  make  my  life  a  song: 
My  bosom  shall  be  tender 

As  thine  has  risen  strong." 

All  the  verses  were  transcribed.  "It  is  he  who  is  the 
humble  knight,"  Clare  explained  at  the  close,  "and  his 
lady  is  a  Queen.  Any  Queen  would  throw  her  crown 
away  for  him." 

It  came  to  that  period  when  Clare  left  Raynham  with 
her  mother. 

"Richard  was  not  sorry  to  lose  me.  He  only  loves  boys 
and  men.  Something  tells  me  I  shall  never  see  Raynham 
again.  He  was  dressed  in  blue.  He  said  Good-bye,  Clare, 
and  kissed  me  on  the  cheek.  Richard  never  kisses  me  on 
the  mouth.    He  did  not  know  I  went  to  his  bed  and  kissed 


400      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

him  while  he  was  asleep.  He  sleeps  with  one  arm  under 
his  head,  and  the  other  out  on  the  bed.  I  moved  away  a 
bit  of  his  hair  that  was  over  his  eyes.  I  wanted  to  cut  it. 
I  have  one  piece.  I  do  not  let  anybody  see  I  am  unhappy, 
not  even  mama.  She  says  I  want  iron.  I  am  sure  I  do 
not.  I  like  to  write  my  name.  Clare  Doria  Forey.  Rich- 
ard's is  Richard  Doria  Feverel." 

His  breast  rose  convulsively.  Clare  Doria  Forey!  He 
knew  the  music  of  that  name.  He  had  heard  it  somewhere. 
It  sounded  faint  and  mellow  now  behind  the  hills  of 
death. 

He  could  not  read  for  tears.  It  was  midnight.  The 
hour  seemed  to  belong  to  her.  The  awful  stillness  and 
the  darkness  were  Clare's.  Clare's  voice  clear  and  cold 
from  the  grave  possessed  it. 

Painfully,  with  blinded  eyes,  he  looked  over  the  breath- 
less pages.  She  spoke  of  his  marriage,  and  her  finding 
the  ring. 

"I  knew  it  was  his.  I  knew  he  was  going  to  be  married 
that  morning.  I  saw  him  stand  by  the  altar  when  they 
laughed  at  breakfast.  His  wife  must  be  so  beautiful  1 
Richard's  wife!  Perhaps  he  will  love  me  better  now  he 
is  married.  Mama  says  they  must  be  separated.  That  is 
shameful.  If  I  can  help  him  I  will.  I  pray  so  that  he  may 
be  happy.  I  hope  God  hears  poor  sinners'  prayers.  I  am 
very  sinful.  Nobody  knows  it  as  I  do.  They  say  I  am 
good,  but  I  know.  When  I  look  on  the  ground  I  am  not 
looking  after  earthworms,  as  he  said.  Oh,  do  forgive  me, 
God !" 

Then  she  spoke  of  her  own  marriage,  and  that  it  was  her 
duty  to  obey  her  mother.     A  blank  in  the  Diary  ensued. 

"I  have  seen  Richard.  Richard  despises  me,"  was  the 
next  entry. 

But  now  as  he  read  his  eyes  were  fixed,  and  the  delicate 
feminine  handwriting  like  a  black  thread  drew  on  his  soul 
to  one  terrible  conclusion. 

"I  cannot  live.  Richard  despises  me.  I  cannot  bear 
the  touch  of  my  fingers  or  the  sight  of  my  face.  Oh !  I 
understand  him  now.  He  should  not  have  kissed  me  so 
that,  last  time.  I  wished  to  die  while  his  mouth  was  on 
mine." 

Further:  "I  have  no  escape.    Richard  said  he  would  die 


CLAKE'S  DIAEY  407 

rather  than  endure  it.  I  know  he  would.  Why  should  I 
be  afraid  to  do  what  he  would  do  ?  I  think  if  my  husband 
whipped  me  I  could  bear  it  better.  He  is  so  kind,  and 
tries  to  make  me  cheerful.  He  will  soon  be  very  unhappy. 
I  pray  to  God  half  the  night'.  I  seem  to  be  losing  sight 
of  my  God  the  more  I  pray." 

Kichard  laid  the  book  open  on  the  table.  Phantom 
surges  seemed  to  be  mounting  and  travelling  for  his  brain. 
Had  Clare  taken  his  wild  words  in  earnest?  Did  she  lie 
there  dead — he  shrouded  the  thought. 

He  wrapped  the  thoughts  in  shrouds,  but'  he  was  again 
reading. 

"A  quarter  to  one  o'clock.  I  shall  not  be  alive  this  time 
to-morrow.  I  shall  never  see  Richard  now.  I  dreamed 
last  night  we  were  in  the  fields  together,  and  he  walked 
with  his  arm  round  my  waist.  We  were  children,  but  I 
thought  we  were  married,  and  I  showed  him  I  wore  his 
ring,  and  he  said — if  you  always  wear  if,  Clare,  you  are 
as  good  as  my  wife.  Then  I  made  a  vow  to  wear  it  for 
ever  and  ever.  .  .  .  It  is  not  mama's  fault.  She  does 
not  think  as  Richard  and  I  do  of  these  things.  He  is  not 
a  coward,  nor  am  I.     He  hates  cowards. 

"I  have  written  to  his  father  to  make  him  happy.  Per- 
haps when  I  am  dead  he  will  hear  what  I  say. 

"I  heard  just  now  Richard  call  distinctly — Clari,  come 
out  to  me.  Surely  he  has  not  gone.  I  am  going  I  know 
not  where.    I  cannot  think.    I  am  very  cold." 

The  words  were  written  larger,  and  staggered  towards 
the  close,  as  if  her  hand  had  lost  mastery  over  the  pen. 

"I  can  only  remember  Richard  now  a  boy.  A  little  boy 
and  a  big  boy.  I  am  not  sure  now  of  his  voice.  I  can 
only  remember  certain  words.  'Clari,'  and  'Don  Ricardo,' 
and  his  laugh.  He  used  to  be  full  of  fun.  Once  we 
laughed  all  day  together  tumbling  in  the  hay.  Then  he 
had  a  friend  and  began  to  write  poetry,  and  be  proud.  If 
I  had  married  a  young  man  he  would  have  forgiven  me, 
but  I  should  not  have  been  happier.  I  must  have  died. 
God  never  looks  on  me. 

"It  is  past  two  o'clock.  The  sheep  are  bleating  outside. 
It  must  be  very  cold  in  the  ground.     Good-bye,  Richard." 

With  his  name  it  began  and  ended.  Even  to  herself 
Clare  was  not  over-communicative.    The  book  was  slender, 


408      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

yet  her  nineteen  years  of  existence  left  half  the  number 
of  pages  white. 

Those  last  words  drew  him  irresistibly  to  gaze  on  her. 
There  she  lay,  the  same  impassive  Clare.  For  a  moment 
he  wondered  she  had  not  moved — to  him  she  had  become 
so  different.  She  who  had  just  filled  his  ears  with  strange 
tidings — it  was  not  possible  to  think  her  dead!  She 
seemed  to  have  been  speaking  to  him  all  through  his  life. 
His  image  was  on  that  still  heart. 

He  dismissed  the  night-watchers  from  the  room,  and  re- 
mained with  her  alone,  till  the  sense  of  death  oppressed 
him,  and  then  the  shock  sent  him  to  the  window  to  look  for 
sky  and  stars.  Behind  a  low  broad  pine,  hung  with  frosty 
mist,  he  heard  a  bell-wether  of  the  fiock  in  the  silent  fold. 
Death  in  life  it  sounded. 

The  mother  found  him  praying  at  the  foot  of  Clare's 
bed.  She  knelt  by  his  side,  and  they  prayed,  and  their 
joint  sobs  shook  their  bodies,  but  neither  of  them  shed 
many  tears.  They  held  a  dark  unspoken  secret  in  com- 
mon.    They  prayed  God  to  forgive  her. 

Clare  was  buried  in  the  family  vault  of  the  Todhunters. 
Her  mother  breathed  no  wish  to  have  her  lying  at  Lo- 
bourne. 

After  the  funeral,  what  they  alone  upon  earth  knew 
brought  them  together. 

"Richard,"  she  said,  "the  worst  is  over  for  me.  I  have 
no  one  to  love  but  you,  dear.  We  have  all  been  fighting 
against  God,  and  this  .  .  .  Richard!  you  will  come  with 
me,  and  be  united  to  your  wife,  and  spare  my  brother  what 
I  suffer." 

He  answered  the  broken  spirit:  "I  have  killed  one.  She 
sees  me  as  I  am.  I  cannot  go  with  you  to  my  wife,  be- 
cause I  am  not  worthy  to  touch  her  hand,  and  were  I  to 
go,  I  should  do  this  to  silence  my  self-contempt.  Go  you 
to  her,  and  when  she  asks  of  me,  say  I  have  a  death  upon 

my  head  that No!  say  that  I  am  abroad,  seeking  for 

that  which  shall  cleanse  me.  If  I  find  it  I  shall  come  to 
claim  her.    If  not,  God  help  us  all !" 

She  had  no  strength  to  contest  his  solemn  words,  or  stay 
him,  and  he  went  forth. 


AUSTIN  RETURNS  409 

CHAPTER    XLI 

AUSTIN  RETURNS 

A  man  with  a  beard  saluted  the  wise  youth  Adrian  in 
the  full  blaze  of  Piccadilly  with  a  clap  on  the  shoulder. 
Adrian  glanced  leisurely  behind. 

"Do  you  want  to  try  my  nerves,  my  dear  fellow?  I'm 
not  a  man  of  fashion,  happily,  or  you  would  have  struck 
the  seat  of  them.     How  are  you?" 

That  was  his  welcome  to  Austin  Wentworth  after  his 
long  absence. 

Austin  took  his  arm,  and  asked  for  news,  with  the 
hunger  of  one  who  had  been  in  the  wilderness  five  years. 

"The  Whigs  have  given  up  the  ghost,  my  dear  Austin. 
The  free  Briton  is  to  receive  Liberty's  pearl,  the  Ballot. 
The  Aristocracy  has  had  a  cycle's  notice  to  quit.  The 
Monarchy  and  old  Madeira  are  going  out;  Demos  and 
Cape  wines  are  coming  in.  They  call  it  Reform.  So,  you 
see,  your  absence  has  worked  wonders.  Depart  for  another 
five  years,  and  you  will  return  to  ruined  stomachs,  cracked 
sconces,  general  upset,  an  equality  made  perfect  by  uni- 
versal prostration." 

Austin  indulged  him  in  a  laugh.  "I  want  to  hear  about 
ourselves.     How  is  old  Ricky?" 

"You  know  of  his — what  do  they  call  it  when  greenhorns 
are  licenced  to  jump  into  the  milkpails  of  dairymaids? — a 
very  charming  little  woman  she  makes,  by  the  way — pre- 
sentable !  quite  old  Anacreon's  rose  in  milk.  Well !  every- 
body thought  the  System  must  die  of  it.  Not  a  bit.  It 
continued  to  flourish  in  spite.  It's  in  a  consumption  now, 
though — emaciated,  lean,  raw,  spectral !  I've  this  morning 
escaped  from  Raynham  to  avoid  the  sight  of  it.  I  have 
brought  our  genial  uncle  Hippias  to  town — a  delightful 
companion!  I  said  to  him:  We've  had  a  fine  Spring/ 
'Ugh !'  he  answers,  'there's  a  time  when  you  come  to  think 
the  Spring  old.'  You  should  have  heard  how  he  trained 
out  the  'old.'  I  felt  something  like  decay  in  my  sap  just  to 
hear  him.  In  the  prize-fight  of  life,  mj  dear  Austin,  our 
uncle  Hippias  has  been  unfairly  hit  befow  the  belt.  Let's 
guard  ourselves  there,  and  go  and  order  dinner." 


410      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"But  where's  Ricky  now,  and  what  is  he  doing?"  saic» 
Austin. 

"Ask  what  he  has  done.  The  miraculous  boy  has  gone 
and  got  a  baby!" 

"A  child?  Richard  has  one?"  Austin's  clear  eyes  shone 
with  pleasure. 

"I  suppose  it's  not  common  among  your  tropical  sav- 
ages, lie  has  one:  one  as  big  as  two.  That  has  been  the 
death-blow  to  the  System.  It,  bore  the  marriage — the  baby 
was  too  much  for  it.  Could  it  swallow  the  babv,  'twould 
live.  She,  the  wonderful  woman,  has  product**  3  larj*e 
boy.  I  assure  you  it's  quite  amusing  to  see  the  System 
opening  it's  mouth  every  hour  of  the  day,  trying  to  gulp 
him  down,  aware  that  it  would  be  a  consummate  cure,  or 
happy  release." 

By  degrees  Austin  learnt  the  baronet's  proceedings,  and 
smiled  sadly. 

"How  has  Ricky  turned  out?"  he  asked.  "What  sort 
of  a  character  has  he?" 

"The  poor  boy  is  ruined  by  his  excessive  anxiety  about 
it.  Character?  he  has  the  character  of  a  bullet  with  a 
treble  charge  of  powder  behind  it.  Enthusiasm  is  the 
powder.  That  boy  could  get  up  an  enthusiasm  for  the 
maiden  days  of  Ops !  He  was  going  to  reform  the  world, 
after  your  fashion,  Austin, — you  have  something  to 
answer  for.  Unfortunately  he  began  with  the  feminine 
side  of  it.  Cupid  proud  of  Phoebus  newly  slain,  or  Pluto 
wishing  to  people  his  kingdom,  if  you  like,  put  it  into 
the  soft  head  of  one  of  the  guileless  grateful  creatures  to 
kiss  him  for  his  good  work.  Oh,  horror!  he  never  expected 
that.  Conceive  the  System  in  the  flesh,  and  you  have 
our  Richard.  The  consequence  is,  that  this  male  Peri 
refuses  to  enter  his  Paradise,  though  the  gates  are  open 
for  him,  the  trumpets  blow,  and  the  fair  unspotted  one 
awaits  him  fruitful  within.  We  heard  of  him  last  that 
he  was  trying  the  German  waters — preparatory  to  his 
undertaking  the  release  of  Italy  from  the  subjugation  of 
the  Teuton.  Let's  hope  they'll  wash  him.  He  is  in  the 
company  of  Lady  Judith  Felle — your  old  friend,  the 
ardent  female  Radical  who  married  the  decrepit  lord  to 
carry  out  her  principles.  They  always  marry  English 
lords,  or  foreign  princes.     I  admire  their  tactics." 


AUSTIN  RETURNS  411 

"Judith  is  bad  for  him  in  such  a  state  I  like  her,  but 
she  was  always  too  sentimental,"  said  Austin. 

"Sentiment  made  her  marry  the  old  lord,  I  suppose?  I 
like  her  for  her  sentiment,  Austin.  Sentimental  people 
are  sure  to  live  long  and  die  fat.  Feeling,  that's  the 
slayer,  coz.  Sentiment!  'tis  the  cajolery  of  existence:  the 
soft  bloom  which  whoso  weareth,  he  or  she  is  enviable. 
Would  that  I  had  more !" 

"You're  not  much  changed,  Adrian." 

"I'm  not  a  Radical,  Austin." 

Further  inquiries,  responded  to  in  Adrian's  figurative 
speech,  instructed  Austin  that  the  baronet  was  waiting  for 
his  son,  in  a  posture  of  statuesque  offended  paternity, 
before  he  would  receive  his  daughter-in-law  and  grandson. 
That  was  what  Adrian  meant  by  the  efforts  of  the  System 
to  swallow  the  baby. 

"We're  in  a  tangle,"  said  the  wise  youth.  "Time  will 
extricate  us,  I  presume,  or  what'  is  the  venerable  signor 
good  for?" 

Austin  mused  some  minutes,  and  asked  for  Lucy's  place 
of  residence. 

"We'll  go  to  her  by  and  by,"  said  Adrian. 

"I  shall  go  and  see  her  now,"  said  Austin. 

"Well,  we'll  go  and  order  the  dinner  first,  coz." 

"Give  me  her  address." 

"Really,  Austin,  you  carry  matters  with  too  long  ?■ 
beard,"  Adrian  objected.  "Don't  you  care  what  you  eat?" 
he  roared  hoarsely,  looking  humorously  hurt.  "I  daresay 
not.  A  slice  out  of  him  that's  handy — sauce  du  ciel !  Go, 
batten  on  the  baby,  cannibal.     Dinner  at  seven." 

Adrian  gave  him  his  own  address,  and  Lucy's,  and 
strolled  off  to  do  the  better  thing. 

Overnight  Mrs.  Berry  had  observed  a  long  stranger  in 
her  tea-cup.  Posting  him  on  her  fingers  and  starting  him 
with  a  smack,  he  had  vaulted  lightly  and  thereby  indicated 
that  he  was  positively  coming  the  next  day.  She  forgot 
him  in  the  bustle  of  her  duties  and  the  absorption  of  her 
faculties  in  thoughts  cf  the  incomparable  stranger  Lucy 
had  presented  to  the  world,  till  a  knock  at  the  street-door 
reminded  her.  "There  he  is!"  she  cried,  as  she  ran  to 
open  to  him.  "There's  my  stranger  come!"  Never  was  a 
woman's  faith  in  omens  so  justified.    The  stranger  desired 


U2      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

to  see  Mrs.  Richard  Feverel.  He  said  his  name  was  Mr. 
Austin  Wentworth.  Mrs.  Berry  clasped  her  hands,  ex- 
claiming, "Come  at  last  I"  and  ran  bolt  out  of  the  house  to 
look  up  and  down  the  street.  Presently  she  returned  with 
many  excuses  for  her  rudeness,  saying:  "I  expected  to  see 
her  comin'  home,  Mr.  Wentworth.  Every  day  twice  a  day 
she  go  out  to  give  her  blessed  angel  an  airing.  No  leavin' 
the  child  with  nursemaids  for  her!  She  is  a  mother!  an^ 
good  milk,  too,  thank  the  Lord!  though  her  heart's  se 
low." 

Indoors  Mrs.  Berry  stated  who  she  was,  related  the  his- 
tory of  the  young  couple,  and  her  participation  in  it,  and 
admired  the  beard.  "Though  I'd  swear  you  don't  wear  it 
for  ornament,  now!''  she  said,  having  in  the  first  impulse 
designed  a  stroke  at  man's  vanity. 

Ultimately  Mrs.  Berry  spoke  of  the  family  complication, 
and  with  dejected  head  and  joined  hands  threw  out  dark 
hints  about  Richard. 

While  Austin  was  giving  his  cheerfuller  views  of  the 
case,  Lucy  came  in,  preceding  the  baby. 

"I  am  Austin  Wentworth,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand. 
They  read  each  other's  faces,  these  two,  and  smiled  kin- 
ship. 

"Your  name  is  Lucy?" 

She  affirmed  it'  softly. 

"And  mine  is  Austin,  as  you  know." 

Mrs.  Berry  allowed  time  for  Lucy's  charms  to  subdue 
him,  and  presented  Richard's  representative,  who,  seeing 
a  new  face,  Buffered  himself  to  be  contemplated  before 
he  commenced  crying  aloud  and  knocking  at  the  doors  of 
Nature  for  something  that  was  due  to  him. 

"Ain't  he  a  lusty  darlin'?"  says  Mrs.  Berry.  "Ain't 
he  like  his  own  father?  There  can't  bo  no  doubt  about 
zoo,  zoo  pitty  pet.  Look  at  his  fists.  Ain't  he  got  pas- 
sion? Ain't  he  a  splendid  roarer?  Oh !"  and  she  went  off 
rapturously  into  baby-language. 

A  fine  boy,  certainly.  Mrs.  Berry  exhibited  his  legs  for 
further  proof,  desiring  Austin's  confirmation  as  to  their 
being  dumplings. 

Lucy  murmured  a  word  of  excuse,  and  bore  the  splendid 
roarer  out  of  the  room. 

"She  might  a  done  it  here,"  said  Mrs.  Berry.     "There's 


AUSTIN  RETURNS  413 

no  prettier  sight,  I  say.  If  her  dear  husband  could  but  see 
that!  He's  off  in  his  heroics — he  want  to  be  doin'  all 
sort  o'  things :  I  say  he'll  never  do  anything  grander  than 
that  baby.  You  should  'a  seen  her  uncle  over  that  baby — 
he  came  here,  for  I  said,  you  shall  see  your  own  fam'ly, 
my  dear,  and  so  she  thinks.  He  come,  and  he  laughed 
over  the  baby  in  the  joy  of  his  heart,  poor  man !  he  cried, 
he  did.  You  should  see  that  Mr.  Thompson,  Mr.  Went- 
worth — a  friend  o'  Mr.  Richard's,  and  a  very  modest- 
minded  young  gentleman — he  worships  her  in  his  inno- 
cence. It's  a  sight  to  see  him  with  that  baby.  My  belief 
is  he's  unhappy  'cause  he  can't  anyways  be  nurse-maid  to 
him.     O  Mr.  Wentworth!  what  do  you  think  of  her,  sir?" 

Austin's  reply  was  as  satisfactory  as  a  man's  poor  speech 
could  make  it.  He  heard  that  Lady  Feverel  was  in  the 
house,  and  Mrs.  Berry  prepared  the  way  for  him  to  pay 
\iis  respects  to  her.  Then  Mrs.  Berry  ran  to  Lucy,  and 
tiT'";  house  buzzed  with  new  life.  The  simple  creatures  felt 
in  Austin's  presence  something  good  among  them.  "He 
don't  speak  much,"  said  Mrs.  Berry,  "but  I  see  by  his  eye 
he  mean  a  deal.  He  ain't  one  o'  yer  long-word  gentry, 
who's  all  gay  deceivers,  every  one  of  'em." 

Lucy  pressed  the  hearty  suckling  into  her  breast.  "I 
wonder  what  he  thinks  of  me,  Mrs.  Berry  ?  _  I  could  not 
speak  to  him.  I  loved  him  before  I  saw  him.  I  knew 
what  his  face  was  like." 

"He  looks  proper  even  with  a  beard,  and  that's  a  trial 
for  a  virtuous  man,"  said  Mrs.  Berry.  "One  sees  straight 
through  the  hair  with  him.  Think !  he'll  think  what  any 
man'd  think — you  a-suckin'  spite  o'  all  your  sorrow,  my 
sweet, — and  my  Berry  talkin'  of  his  Roman  matrons! — 
here's  a  English  wife'll  match  'em  all!  that's  what  he 
thinks.  And  now  that  leetle  dark  under  yer  eye'V  Jear, 
my  darlin',  now  he've  come." 

Mrs.  Berry  looked  to  no  more  than  that;  Luc>  to  no 
more  than  the  peace  she  had  in  being  near  Richard's  best 
friend.  When  she  sat  down  to  tea  it  was  with  a  sense  that 
the  little  room  that  held  her  was  her  home  perhaps  for 
many  a  day. 

A  chop  procured  and  cooked  by  Mrs.  Berry  formed 
Austin's  dinner.  During  the  meal  he  entertained  them 
with  anecdotes  of  his  travels.    Poor  Lucy  had  no  tempta- 


414      THE  OKDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

tion   to   try   to   conquer   Austin.      That   heroic   weakness 
of  hers  was  gone. 

Mrs.  Berry  had  said:  "Three  cups — I  goes  no  further," 
and  Lucy  had  rejected  the  proffer  of  more  tea,  when 
Austin,  who  was  in  the  thick  of  a  Brazilian  forest,  asked 
her  if  she  was  a  good  traveller. 

"I  mean,  can  you  start  at  a  minute's  notice?" 

Lucy  hesitated,  and  then  said,  "Yes,"  decisively,  to 
which  Mrs.  Berry  added,  that  she  was  not  a  "luggage- 
woman." 

"There  used  to  be  a  train  at  seven  o'clock,"  Austin 
remarked,  consulting  his  watch. 

The  two  women  were  silent. 

"Could  you  get  ready  to  come  with  me  to  Raynham 
in  ten  minutes?" 

Austin  looked  as  if  he  had  asked  a  commonplace  ques- 
tion. 

Lucy's  lips  parted  to  speak.     She  could  not  answer. 

Loud  rattled  the  teaboard  to  Mrs.  Berry's  dropping 
hands. 

"Joy  and  deliverance  1"  she  exclaimed  with  a  founder- 
ing voice. 

"Will  you  come?"  Austin  kindly  asked  again. 

Lucy  tried  to  stop  her  beating  heart,  as  she  answered, 
"Yes."  Mrs.  Berry  cunningly  pretended  to  interpret  the 
irresolution  in  her  tones  with  a  mighty  whisper:  "She's 
thinking  what's  to  be  done  with  baby." 

"He  must  learn  to  travel,"  said  Austin. 

"Oh  I"  cried  Mrs.  Berry,  "and  I'll  be  his  nuss,  and  bear 
him,  a  sweet!  Oh!  and  think  of  it!  me  nurse-maid  once 
more  at  Raynham  Abbey !  but  it's  nurse-woman  now,  you 
must  say.     Let  us  be  goin'  on  the  spot." 

She  started  up  and  away  in  hot  haste,  fearing  delay 
would  cool  the  heaven-sent  resolve.  Austin  smiled,  eying 
his  watch  and  Lucy  alternately.  She  was  wishing  to  ask 
a  multitude  of  questions.  His  face  reassurec!  her,  and 
saying:  "I  will  be  dressed  instantly,"  she  also  left  the 
room.  Talking,  bustling,  preparing,  wrapping  up  my 
lord,  and  looking  to  their  neatnesses,  they  were  never- 
heless  ready  within  the  time  prescribed  by  Austin,  and 
Mrs.  Berry  stood  humming  over  the  baby.  "He'll  sleep 
it  through,"   she  said.     "He's  had  enough   for  an   alder- 


AUSTIN  RETURNS  415 

man,  and  goes  to  sleep  sound  after  his  dinner,  he  do,  a 
duck!"  Before  they  departed,  Lucy  ran  up  to  Lady 
Feverel.     She  returned  for  the  small  one. 

"One  moment,  Mr.  Wentworth!" 

"Just  two,"  said  Austin. 

Master  Richard  was  taken  up,  and  when  Lucy  came 
back  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"She  thinks  she  is  never  to  see  him  again,  Mr.  Went- 


worth. 


n 


"She  shall,"  Austin  said  simply. 

Off  they  went,  and  with  Austin  near  her,  Lucy  forgot 
to  dwell  at  all  upon  the  great  act  of  courage  she  was 
performing. 

"I  do  hope  baby  will  not  wake,"  was  her  chief  solicitude. 

"He!"  cries  nurse-woman  Berry  from  the  rear,  "his  little 
tum-tum's  as  tight  as  he  can  hold,  a  pet!  a  lamb!  a  bird! 
a  beauty!  and  ye  may  take  yer  oath  he  never  wakes  till 
tiat's  slack.     He've  got'  character  of  his  own,  a  blessed!" 

There  are  some  tremendous  citadels  that  only  want  to  be 
taken  by  storm.  The  baronet  sat  alone  in  his  library,  sick 
of  resistance,  and  rejoicing  in  the  pride  of  no  surrender; 
a  terror  to  his  friends  and  to  himself.  Hearing  Austin's 
name  sonorously  pronounced  by  the  man  of  calves,  he 
looked  up  from  his  book,  and  held  out  his  hand.  "Glad 
to  see  you,  Austin."  His  appearance  betokened  complete 
security.     The  next  minute  he  found  himself  escaladed. 

It  was  a  cry  from  Mrs.  Berry  that  told  him  others  were 
in  the  room  besides  Austin.  Lucy  stood  a  little  behind 
the  Tamp:  Mrs.  Berry  close  to  the  door.  The  door  was 
hali  open,  and  passing  through  it  might  be  seen  the  petri- 
fied figure  of  a  fine  man.  The  baronet  glancing  over  the 
lamp  rose  at  Mrs.  Berry's  signification  of  a  woman's  per- 
sonality. Austin  stepped  back  and  led  Lucy  to  him  by 
the  hand.  "I  have  brought  Bichard's  wife,  sir,"  he  said 
with  a  pleased,  perfectly  uncalculating,  countenance,  that 
was  disarming.  Very  pale  and  trembling  Lucy  bowed. 
She  felt  her  two  hands  taken,  and  heard  a  kind  voice. 
Could  it  be  possible  it  belonged  to  the  dreadful  father 
of  her  husband  ?  She  lifted  her  eyes  nervously :  her  hands 
were  still  detained.  The  baronet  contemplated  Richard's 
choice.  Had  he  ever  had  a  rivalry  with  those  pure  eyes? 
He   saw   the   pain    of   her  position    shooting    across   hei 


416      THE  ORDEAL  OE  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

brows,  and,  uttering  gentle  Inquiries  as  to  her  health, 
placed  her  in  a  seat.  Mi  3.  Berry  had  already  f»Uen  i.ito 
a  chair. 

''What  aspect  do  yoa  liVe  for  your  bedroom? — East?" 
said  the  baronet. 

Lucy  was  asking  herself  wonderingly:  "Am  I  to  stay?" 

"Perhaps  you  had  better  take  to  Richard's  room  at 
once,"  he  pursued.  "You  h, ive  the  Lobourne  valley  there 
and  a  pood  morning  air,  and  will  feel  more  at  home." 

Lucy's  colour  mounted.  Mrs.  Berry  gave  a  short  cough, 
as  one  who  should  say,  "The  day  is  ours!"  Undoubtedly 
— strange  as  it  was  to  think  it — the  fortress  was  carried. 

"Lucy  is  rather  tired,"  said  Austin,  and  to  hear  her 
Christian  name  thus  bravely  spoken  brought"  grateful 
claw  to  her  eyes. 

The  baronet  was  about  to  touch  the  bell.  "But  have 
y>u  come  alone?"  he  asked. 

A.  this  Mrs.  Berry  came  forward.  Xot  immediately: 
it  setrtued  to  require  effort  for  her  to  move,  and  when  she 
was  within  the  region  of  the  lamp,  her  agitation  could  not 
escape  notice.     The  blissful  bundle  shook  in  her  arms. 

"By  the  way,  what  is  he  to  me?"  Austin  inquired 
generally  as  he  went  and  unveiled  the  younger  hope  of 
Ravnham.  "My  relationship  is  not  so  defined  as  yours, 
sir." 

An  observer  might  have  supposed  that  the  baronet 
peeped  at  his  grandson  with  the  courteous  indifference 
of  one  who  merely  wished  to  compliment  the  mother  of 
anybody's  child. 

"I  really  think  he's  like  Richard,"  Austin  laughed. 
Lucy  looked :   I  am  sure  he  is ! 

"As  like  as  one  to  one,"  Mrs.  Berry  murmured  feebly; 
but  Grandpapa  not  speaking  she  thought  it  incumbent 
on  her  to  pluck  up.  "And  he's  as  healthy  as  his  father 
was,  Sir  Austin — spite  o'  the  might  'a  beens.  Reg'lar 
as  the  clock !  We  never  want  a  clock  since  he  come. 
We  knows  the  hour  o'  the  day,  and  of  the  night." 

"You  nurse  him  yourself,  of  course?"  the  baronet  spoke 
to  Lucy,   and  was  satisfied  on  that  point. 

Mrs.  Berry  was  going  to  display  his  prodigious  legs. 
Lucy,  fearing  the  consequent  effect  on  the  prodigious 
1ungs,  begged  her  not  to  wake  him.     " 'T'd  take  a  deal  to 


AUSTIN  RETURNS  417 

do  that,"  said  Mrs.  Berry,  and  harped  on  Master  Richard's 
health  and  the  small  wonder  it  was  that  he  enjoyed  it, 
considering  the  superior  quality  of  his  diet,  and  the  lavish 
attentions  of  his  mother,  and  then  suddenly  fell  silent  on 
a  deep  sigh. 

"He  looks  healthy,"  said  the  baronet,  ''but  I  am  not  a 
judge  of  babies." 

Thus,  having  capitulated,  Raynham  chose  to  acknowl- 
edge its  new  commandant,  who  was  now  borne  away,  under 
the  directions  of  the  housekeeper,  to  occupy  the  room 
Richard  had  slept  in  when  an  infant. 

Austin  cast  no  thought  on  his  success.  The  baronet 
said :  "She  is  extremely  well-looking."  He  replied :  "A 
person  you  take  to  at  once."     There  it  ended. 

But  a  much  more  animated  colloquy  was  taking  place 
aloft,  where  Lucy  and  Mrs.  Berry  sat  alone.  Lucy  ex- 
pected her  to  talk  about  the  reception  they  had  met  with, 
and  the  house,  and  the  peculiarities  of  the  rooms,  and 
the  solid  happiness  that  seemed  in  store.  Mrs.  Berry  all 
the  while  would  persist  in  consulting  the  looking-glass. 
Her  first  distinct  answer  was,  "My  dear!  tell  me  candid, 
how  do  I  look?" 

"Very  nice  indeed,  Mrs.  Berry;  but  could  you  have  be- 
lieved he  would  be  so  kind,  so  considerate?" 

"I  am  sure  I  looked  a  frump,"  returned  Mrs.  Berry. 
"Oh  dear !  two  birds  at  a  shot.     What  do  you  think,  now  ?" 

"I  never  saw  so  wonderful  a  likeness,"  says  Lucy. 

"Likeness !  look  at  me."  Mrs.  Berry  was  trembling  and 
hot  in  the  palms. 

"You're  very  feverish,  dear  Berry.     What  can  it  be?" 

"Ain't  it  like  the  love-flutters  of  a  young  gal,  my  dear." 

"Go  to  bed,  Berry,  dear,"  says  Lucy,  pouting  in  her  soft 
caressing  way.  "I  will  undress  you,  and  see  to  you,  dear 
heart!     You've  had  so  much  excitement." 

"Ha!  ha!"  Berry  laughed  hysterically;  "sbe  thinks  it's 
about  this  business  of  hers.  Why,  it's  child's-play,  my 
darlin'.  But  I  didn't  look  for  tragedy,  to-night.  Sleep  in 
this  house  I  can't,  my  love!" 

Lucy  was  astonished.  "Not  sleep  here,  Mrs.  Berry? — 
Oh!  why,  you  silly  old  thing?     I  know." 

"Do  ye!"  said  Mrs.  Berry,  with  a  sceptical  nose. 

'You're  afraid  of  ghosts." 


418      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"Belike  I  am  when  they're  six  foot  two  in  their  shoes, 
and  bellows  when  you  stick  a  pin  into  their  calves.  I 
seen  my  Berry!" 

"Your  husband?" 

"Large  as  life!" 

Lucy  meditated  on  optical  delusions,  but  Mrs.  Berry 
described  him  as  the  Colossus  who  had  marched  them 
into  the  library,  and  vowed  that  he  had  recognized  her  and 
quaked.  "Time  ain't  aged  him,"  said  Mrs.  Berry,  "where- 
as me!  he've  got  his  excuse  now.     I  know  I  look  a  frump." 

Lucy  kissed  her:  "You  look  the  nicest,  dearest  old 
thing." 

"You  may  say  an  old  thing,  my  dear." 

"And  your  husband  is  really  here?" 

"Berry's  below!" 

Profoundly  uttered  as  this  was,  it  chased  every  vestige 
of  incredulity. 

"What  will  you  do,  Mrs.  Berry?" 

"Go,  my  dear.  Leave  him  to  be  happy  in  his  own  way. 
It's  over  atween  us,  I  see  that.  When  I  entered  the  house 
I  felt  there  was  something  comin'  over  me,  and  lo  and 
behold  ye!  no  sooner  was  we  in  the  hall-passage — if  it 
hadn't  been  for  that  blessed  infant  1  should  'a  dropped. 
I  must  'a  known  his  step,  for  my  heart  began  thumpin', 
and  I  knew  I  hadn't  got  my  hair  straight — that  Mr. 
Wentworth  was  in  such  a  hurry — nor  my  best  gown.  I 
knew  he'd  scorn  me.     He  hates  frumps." 

"Scorn  you!"  cried  Lucy,  angrily.  "He  who  has  be- 
haved so  wickedly!" 

Mrs.  Berry  attempted  to  rise.  "I  may  as  well  go  at 
once,"  she  whimpered.  "If  I  see  him  I  shall  only  be  dis- 
gracin'  of  myself.  I  feel  it  all  on  my  side  already.  Did 
ye  mark  him,  my  dear?  I  know  I  was  vexin'  to  him  at 
times,  I  was.  Those  big  men  are  se  touchy  about  their 
dignity — nat'ral.  Hark  at  me!  I'm  goin'  all  soft  in  a 
minute.  Let  me  leave  the  house,  my  dear.  I  daresay 
it  was  good  half  my  fault.  Young  women  don't  under- 
stand men  sufficient — not  altogether — and  I  was  a  young 
woman  then;  and  then  what  they  goes  and  does  they 
ain't  quite  answerable  for:  they  feel,  I  daresay,  pushed 
from  behind.  Yes.  I'll  go.  I'm  a  frump.  I'll  go. 
'Tain't  in  natur'  for  me  to  sleep  in  the  same  house." 


ATJSTIX  RETURNS  419 

Lucy  laid  her  hands  on  Mrs.  Berry's  shoulders,  and 
forcibly  fixed  her  in  her  seat.  ''Leave  baby,  naughty 
•woman  ?  I  tell  you  he  shall  come  to  you,  and  fall  on 
his  knees  to  you  and  beg  your  forgiveness." 

"Berry  on  his  knees!" 

"Yes.     And  he  shall  beg  and  pray  you  to  forgive  him." 

"If  you  get  more  from  Martin  Berry  than  breath-away 
words,  great'll  be  my  wonder!"  said  Mrs.  Berry. 

"We  will  see,"  said  Lucy,  thoroughly  determined  to  do 
something  for  the  good  creature  that  had  befriended  her. 

Mrs.  Berry  examined  her  gown.  "Won't  it  seem  we're 
runnin'  after  him?"  she  murmured  faintly. 

"He  is  your  husband,  Mrs.  Berry.  He  may  be  want- 
ing to  come  to  you  now." 

"Oh !  Where  is  all  I  was  goin'  to  say  to  that  man  when 
we  met !"  Mrs.  Berry  ejaculated.    Lucy  had  left  the  room. 

On  the  landing  outside  the  door  Lucy  met  a  lady  dressed 
in  black,  who  stopped  her  and  asked  if  she  was  Richard's 
wife,  and  kissed  her,  passing  from  her  immediately.  Lucy 
despatched  a  message  for  Austin,  and  related  the  Berry 
history.  Austin  sent  for  the  great  man,  and  said :  "Do 
you  know  your  wife  is  here?"  Before  Berry  had  time  to 
draw  himself  up  to  enunciate  his  long-est,  he  was  re- 
quested to  step  upstairs,  and  as  his  young  mistress  at  once 
led  the  way,  Berry  could  not  refuse  to  put  his  legs  in 
motion  and  carry  the  stately  edifice  aloft. 

Of  the  interview  Mrs.  Berry  gave  Lucy  a  slight  sketch 
that  night.  "He  began  in  the  old  way,  my  dear,  and  says 
I,  a  true  heart  and  plain  words,  Martin  Berry.  So  there 
he  cuts  himself  and  his  Johnson  short,  and  down  he  goes 
— down  on  his  knees.  I  never  could  'a  believed  it.  I 
kep  my  dignity  as  a  woman  till  I  see  that  sight,  but 
that  done  for  me.  I  was  a  ripe  apple  in  his  arms  'fore 
I  knew  where  I  was.  There's  something  about  a  fine 
man  on  his  knees  that's  too  much  for  us  women.  And 
it  reely  was  the  penitent  on  his  two  knees,  not  the  lover 
on  his  one.  If  he  mean  it!  But  ah!  what  do  you 
think  he  begs  of  me,  my  dear? — not  to  make  it  known 
in  the  house  just  yet !     I  can't,  I  can't  say  that  look  well." 

Lucy  attributed  it  to  his  sense  of  shame  at  his  conduct, 
and  Mrs.  Berry  did  her  best  to  look  on  it  in  that  light. 

"Did  the  bar'net  kiss  ye  when  you  wished  him  good- 


420      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

night?"  she  asked.  Lucy  said  he  had  not.  "Then  hido 
awake  as  long  as  ye  can,"  was  Mrs.  Berry's  rejoinder. 
"And  now  let  us  pray  blessings  on  that  simple-speaking 
gentleman  who  does  so  much  'cause  he  says  so  little." 

Like  many  other  natural  people,  Mrs.  Berry  was  only 
silly  where  her  own  soft  heart  was  concerned.  As  she 
secretly  anticipated,  the  baronet  came  into  her  room  when 
all  was  quiet.  She  saw  him  go  and  bend  over  Richard 
the  Second,  and  remain  earnestly  watching  him.  lie 
then  went  to  the  half-opened  door  of  the  room  where 
Lucy  slept,  leaned  his  ear  a  moment,  knocked  gently, 
and  entered.  Mrs.  Berry  heard  low  words  interchanging 
within.  She  could  not  catch  a  syllable,  yet  she  would 
have  sworn  to  the  context.  "He've  called  her  his  daugh- 
ter, promised  her  happiness,  and  given  a  father's  kiss  to 
her."  When  Sir  Austin  passed  out  she  was  in  a  deep 
sleep. 


CHAPTER   XLII 
NATURE  SPEAKS 

Briareus  reddening  angrily  over  the  sea — what  is  that 
vaporous  Titan?  And  Hesper  set  in  his  rosy  garland — 
why  looks  he  so  implacably  sweet?  It  is  that  one  has 
left  that  bright  home  to  go  forth  and  do  cloudy  work, 
and  he  has  #ot  a  stain  with  which  he  dare  not  return. 
Far  in  the  West  fair  Lucy  beckons  him  to  come.  Ah, 
heaven!  if  he  mipdit!  How  strong  and  fierce  the  tempta- 
tion is!  how  subtle  the  sleepless  desire!  it  drugs  his 
reason,  his  honour.  For  he  loves  her;  she  is  still  the 
first  and  only  woman  to  him.  Otherwise  would  this  black 
spot  be  hell  to  him?  otherwise  would  his  limbs  be  chained 
while  her  arms  are  spread  open  to  him.  And  if  he 
loves  her,  why  then  what  is  one  fall  in  the  pit,  or  a 
thousand?  Is  not  love  the  password  to  th'at  beckoning 
bliss?  So  may  we  say;  but  here  is  one  whose  body  has 
been  made  a  temple  to  him,  and  it  is  desecrated. 

A  temple,  and  desecrated !  For  what  is  it  fit  for  but 
for  a  dance  of  devils?  His  education  has  thus  wrought 
him  to  think. 


NATURE   SPEAKS  421 

He  can  blame  nothing  but  bis  own  baseness.  But  to 
feel  base  and  accept  the  bliss  that  beckons — he  has  not 
fallen  so  low  as  that. 

Ah,  happy  English  home!  sweet  wife!  what  mad  miser- 
able Wisp  of  the  Eancy  led  him  away  from  you,  high  in 
his  conceit?  Poor  wretch!  that  thought  to  be  he  of  the 
hundred  hands,  and  war  against  the  absolute  Gods.  Jove 
whispered  a  light  commission  to  the  Laughing  Dame;  she 
met  him ;  and  how  did  he  shake  Olympus  ?  with  laughter  ? 

Sure  it  were  better  to  be  Orestes,  the  Furies  howling 
in  his  ears,  than  one  called  to  by  a  heavenly  soul  from 
whom  he  is  for  ever  outcast.  He  has  not  the  oblivion 
of  madness.  Clothed  in  the  lights  of  his  first  passion, 
robed  in  the  splendour  of  old  skies,  she  meets  him 
everywhere;  morning,  evening,  night,  she  shines  above 
him;  waylays  him  suddenly  in  forest  depths;  drops  palpa- 
bly on  his  heart.  At  moments  he  forgets;  he  rushes  to 
embrace  her;  calls  her  his  beloved,  and  lo,  her  innocent 
kiss  brings  agony  of  shame  to  his  face. 

Daily  the  struggle  endured.  His  father  wrote  to  him, 
begging  him  by  the  love  he  had  for  him  to  return.  Erom 
that  hour  Richard  burnt  unread  all  the  letters  he  received. 
He  knew  too  well  how  easily  he  could  persuade  himself: 
words  from  without  might  tempt  him  and  quite  extinguish 
the  spark  of  honourable  feeling  that  tortured  him,  and 
that  he  clung  to  in  desperate  self-vindication. 

To  arrest  young  gentlemen  on  the  downward  slope  is 
both  a  dangerous  and  thankless  office.  It  is,  nevertheless, 
one  that  fair  women  greatly  prize,  and  certain  of  them 
professionally  follow.  Lady  Judith,  as  far  as  her  sex 
would  permit,  was  also  of  the  Titans  in  their  battle 
against  the  absolute  Gods;  for  which  purpose,  mark  you, 
she  had  married  a  lord  incapable  in  all  save  his  acres. 
Her  achievements  she  kept  to  her  own  mind :  she  did 
not  look  happy  over  them.  She  met  Richard  accidentally 
in  Paris;  she  saw  his  state;  she  let  him  learn  that  she 
alone  on  earth  understood  him.  The  consequence  was 
that  he  was  forthwith  enrolled  in  her  train.  It  soothed 
him  to  be  near  a  woman.  Did  she  venture  her  guess 
as  to  the  cause  of  his  conduct,  she  blotted  it  out  with  a 
facility  women  have,  and  cast  on  it  a  melancholy  hue 
he  was  taught  to  participate  in.     She  spoke  of  sorrows, 


422       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

personal  sorrows,  such  as  he  might  speak  of  his  —vaguely, 
and  with  self-blame.  And  she  understood  him.  How 
the  dark  nn fathomed  wealth  within  ns  gleams  to  a 
woman's  eye!  We  are  at  compound  interest  immedi- 
ately: so  much  richer  than  we  knew! — almost  as  rich  as 
we  dreamed !  But  then  the  instant  we  are  away  from 
her  we  find  ourselves  bankrupt,  beggared.  How  is  that? 
We  do  not  ask.  We  hurry  to  her  and  bask  hungrily  in 
her  orbs.  The  eye  must  be  feminine  to  be  thus  creative: 
I  cannot  say  why.  Lady  Judith  understood  Richard, 
and  he  feeling  infinitely  vile,  somehow  held  to  her  more 
feverishly,  as  one  who  dreaded  the  worst  in  missing  her. 
The  spirit  must  rest;  he  was  weak  with  what  he  suffered. 

Austin  found  them  among  the  hills  of  Nassau  in  Rhine- 
land:  Titans,  male  and  female,  who  had  not  displaced 
Jove,  and  wore  now  adrift,  prone  on  floods  of  sentiment. 
The  blue-frocked  peasant  swinging  behind  his  oxen  of  a 
morning,  the  gaily-kerchiefed  fruit-woman,  the  jackass- 
driver,  even  the  doctor  of  those  regions,  have  done  more 
for  their  fellows.  Horrible  reflection!  Lady  Judith  is 
serene  above  it,  but  it  frets  at  Richard  when  he  is  out 
of  her  shadow.  Often  wretchedly  he  watches  the  young 
men  of  his  own  age  trooping  to  their  work.  Not  cloud- 
work  theirs!     Work  solid,  unambitious,  fruitful! 

Lady  Judith  had  a  nobler  in  prospect  for  the  hero.  He 
gaped  blindfolded  for  anything,  and  she  gave  him  the 
map  of  Europe  in  tatters.  He  swallowed  it  comfortably. 
It  was  an  intoxicating  cordial.  Himself  on  horseback 
over-riding  wrecks  of  Empires!  Well  might'  common 
sense  cower  with  the  meaner  animals  at  the  picture. 
Tacitly  they  agreed  to  recast  the  civilized  globe.  The 
quality  of  vapour  is  to  melt  and  shape  itself  anew;  but 
it  is  never  the  quality  of  vapour  to  reassume  the  same 
shapes.  Briareus  of  the  hundred  unoccupied  hands  may 
turn  to  a  monstrous  donkey  with  his  bind  legs  aloft, 
or  twenty  thousand  jabbering  apes.  The  phantasmic 
groupings  of  the  young  brain  are  very  like  those  we  see 
in  the  skies,  and  equally  the  sport  of  the  wind.  Lady 
Judith  blew.  There  was  plenty  of  vapour  in  him,  and 
it  always  resolved  into  some  shape  or  other.  You  that 
mark  those  clouds  of  eventide,  and  know  youth,  will  see 
the  similitude:  it  will  not  be  strange,  it  will  barely  seem 


NATURE   SPEAKS  423 

foolish  to  you,  that  a  young  man  of  Kichard's  age,  Rich- 
ard's  education  and  position,  should  be  in  this  wild  state. 
Had  he  not  been  nursed  to  believe  he  was  born  for 
great  things?  Did  she  not  say  she  was  sure  of  it?  And 
to  feel  base,  yet  born  for  better,  is  enough  to  make  one 
grasp  at  anything  cloudy.  Suppose  the  hero  with  a  game 
leg.  How  intense  is  his  faith  in  quacks!  with  what  a 
passion  of  longing  is  he  not  seized  to  break  somebody's 
head!  They  spoke  of  Italy  in  low  voices.  "The  time 
will  come,"  said  she.  "And  I  shall  be  ready,"  said  he. 
What  rank  was  he  to  take  in  the  liberating  army?  Cap- 
tain, colonel,  general  in  chief,  or  simple  private?  Here, 
as  became  him,  he  was  much  more  positive  and  specific 
than  she  was.  Simple  private,  he  said.  Yet  he  saw  him- 
self caracoling  on  horseback.  Private  in  the  cavalry,  then, 
of  course.  Private  in  the  cavalry  over-riding  wrecks  of 
Empires.  She  looked  forth  under  her  brows  with  mourn- 
ful indistinctness  at  that  object  in  the  distance.  They 
read  Petrarch  to  get  up  the  necessary  fires.  Italia  mia ! 
Vain  indeed  was  this  speaking  to  those  thick  and  mortal 
wounds  in  her  fair  body,  but  their  sighs  went  with  the 
Tiber,  and  Arno,  and  the  Po,  and  their  hands  joined. 
Who  has  not  wept  for  Italy?  I  see  the  aspirations  of 
a  world  arise  for  her,  thick  and  frequent  as  the  puffs 
of  smoke  from  cigars  of  Pannonian  sentries! 

So  when  Austin  came  Richard  said  he  could  not  leave 
Lady  Judith,  Lady  Judith  said  she  could  not  part  with 
him.  For  his  sake,  mind!  This  Richard  verified.  Per- 
haps he  had  reason  to  be  grateful.  The  high  road  of 
Folly  may  have  led  him  from  one  that  terminates  worse. 
He  is  foolish,  God  knows;  but  for  my  part  I  will  not 
laugh  at  the  hero  because  he  has  not  got  his  occasion. 
Meet  him  when  he  is,  as  it  were,  anointed  by  his  occasion, 
and  he  is  no  laughing  matter. 

Richard  felt  his  safety  in  this  which,  to  please  the 
world,  we  must  term  folly.  Exhalation  of  vapours  was 
a  wholesome  process  to  him,  and  somebody  who  gave  them 
shape  and  hue  a  beneficent  Iris.  He  told  Austin  plainly 
he  could  not  leave  her,  and  did  not  anticipate  the  day 
when  he  could. 

"Why  can't  you  go  to  your  wife,  Richard?" 

"For  a  reason  you  would  be  the  first  to  approve,  AustiD-" 


424      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

He  welcomed  Austin  with  every  show  of  manly  tender- 
ness, and  sadness  at  heart.  Austin  he  had  always  asso- 
ciated with  his  Lucy  in  that  Hesperian  palace  of  the 
West.  Austin  waited  patiently.  Lady  Judith's  old  lord 
played  on  all  the  baths  in  Nassau  without  evoking  the 
tune  of  health.  Whithersoever  he  listed  she  changed  her 
abode.  So  admirable  a  wife  was  to  be  pardoned  for 
espousing  an  old  man.  She  was  an  enthusiast  even  in 
her  connubial  duties.  She  had  the  brows  of  an  enthusiast. 
With  occasion  she  might  have  been  a  Charlotte  Corday. 
So  let  her  also  be  shielded  from  the  ban  of  ridicule.  Non- 
sense of  enthusiasts  is  very  different  from  nonsense  of 
ninnies.  She  was  truly  a  high-minded  person,  of  that 
order  who  always  do  what  they  see  to  be  right,  and  al- 
ways have  confidence  in  their  optics.  She  was  not  un- 
worthy of  a  young  man's  admiration,  if  she  was  unfit 
to  be  his  guide.  She  resumed  her  ancient  intimacy  with 
Austin  easily,  while  she  preserved  her  new  footing  with 
Richard.  She  and  Austin  were  not  unlike,  only  Austin 
never  dreamed,  and  had  not  married  an  old  lord. 

The  three  were  walking  on  the  bridge  at  Limburg  on 
the  Lahn,  where  the  shadow  of  a  stone  bishop  is  thrown 
by  the  moonlight  on  the  water  brawling  over  slabs  of 
slate.  A  woman  passed  them  bearing  in  her  arms  a  baby, 
whose  mighty  size  drew  their  attention. 

"What  a  wopper!"  Richard  laughed. 

"Well,  that  is  a  fine  fellow,"  said  Austin,  "but  I  don't 
think  he's  much  bigger  than  your  boy." 

'"He'll  do  for  a  nineteenth-century  Arminius,"  Richard 
was  saying.     Then  he  looked  at  Austin. 

"What  was  that  you  said?"  Lady  Judith  asked  of 
Austin. 

"What  have  I  said  that  deserves  to  be  repeated?"  Austin 
counterqueried   quite   innocently. 

"Richard  has  a  son?" 

"You  didn't  know  it?" 

"His  modesty  goes  very  far,"  said  Lady  Judith,  sweep- 
ing the  shadow  of  a   curtsey  to   Richard's  paternity. 

Richard's  heart  throbbed  with  violence.  He  looked 
again  in  Austin's  fare.  Austin  took  it  so  much  as  a 
matter  of  course  that  he  said  nothing  more  on  the  subject. 

"Well!"  murmured  Lady  Judith. 


NATURE   SPEAKS  425 

When  the  two  men  were  alone,  Richard  said  in  a  quick 
voice:  'Austin!  you  were  in  earnest?" 

"You  didn't  know  it,  Richard?" 

"No" 

"Why;  they  all  wrote  to  you.  Lucy  wrote  to  you :  your 
father,  your  aunt.     I  believe  Adrian  wrote  too." 

"I  tore  up  their  letters,"  said  Richard. 

"He's  a  noble  fellow,  I  can  tell  you.  You've  nothing 
to  be  ashamed  of.  He'll  soon  be  coming  to  ask  about  you. 
I  made  sure  you  knew." 

"No,  I  never  knew."  Richard  walked  away,  and  then 
said:  "What  is  he  like?" 

"Well,  he  really  is  like  you,  but  he  has  his  mother's 
eyes." 

"And  she's- 


"Yes.     I  think  the  child  has  kept  her  well." 

"They're  both  at  Raynham?" 

"Both." 

Hence  fantastic  vapours !  What  are  ye  to  this !  Where 
are  the  dreams  of  the  hero  when  he  learns  he  has  a  child  ? 
Nature  is  taking  him  to  her  bosom.  She  will  speak  pres- 
ently. Every  domesticated  boor  in  these  hills  can  boast 
the  same,  yet  marvels  the  hero  at  none  of  his  visioned 
prodigies  as  he  does  when  he  comes  to  hear  of  this  most 
common  performance.  A  father?  Richard  fixed  his  eyes 
as  if  he  were  trying  to  make  out  the  lineaments  of  his 
child. 

Telling  Austin  he  would  be  back  in  a  few  minutes,  he 
sallied  into  the  air,  and  walked  on  and  on.  "A  father!" 
he  kept  repeating  to  himself:  "a  child!"  And  though  he 
knew  it  not,  he  was  striking  the  key-notes  of  Nature.  But 
he  did  know  of  a  singular  harmony  that  suddenly  burst 
over  his  whole  being. 

The  moon  was  surpassingly  bright:  the  summer  air 
heavy  and  still.  He  left  the  high  road  and  pierced  into 
the  forest.  His  walk  was  rapid:  the  leaves  on  the  trees 
brushed  his  cheeks;  the  dead  leaves  heaped  in  the  dells 
noised  to  his  feet.  Something  of  a  religious  _  joy — a 
strange  sacred  pleasure — was  in  him.  By  degrees  it  wore ; 
he  remembered  himself:  and  now  he  was  possessed  by 
a  proportionate  anguish.  A  father!  he  dared  never  see 
his  child.     And  he  had  no  longer  his  phantasies  to  fall 


426      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

upon.  He  was  utterly  bare  to  his  sin.  In  his  trouble*! 
mind  it  seemed  to  him  that  Clare  looked  down  on  him — ■ 
Clare  who  saw  him  as  he  was;  and  that  to  i.er  eyes  it 
\v«uild  bo  infamy  for  him  to  go  and  print  his  kiss  upon 
his  child.  Then  came  stern  efforts  to  command  his  misery 
and  make  the  nerves  of  his  face  iron. 

By  the  log"  of  an  ancient  tree  half  buried  in  dead  leaves 
of  past  summers,  beside  a  brook,  he  halted  as  one  who 
had  reached  his  journey's  end.  There  he  discovered  he 
had  a  companion  in  Lady  Judith's  little  dog.  He  gave 
the  friendly  animal  a  pat  of  recognition,  and  both  were 
silent  in  the  forest-silence. 

It  was  impossible  for  Richard  to  return;  his  heart  was 
surcharged.  He  must  advance,  and  on  he  footed,  the 
little  dog  following. 

An  oppressive  slumber  hung  about  the  forest-branches. 
In  the  dells  and  on  the  heights  was  the  same  dead  heat. 
Here  where  the  brook  tinkled  it  was  no  cool-lipped  sound, 
but  metallic,  and  without  the  spirit  of  water.  Yonder  in 
a  space  of  moonlight  on  lush  grass,  the  beams  were  as 
white  firo  to  sight"  and  feeling.  No  haze  spread  around. 
The  valleys  were  clear,  defined  to  the  shade  \\s  of  their 
verges;  the  distances  sharply  distinct,  and  with  the 
colours  of  day  but  slightly  softened.  Richard  beheld  a 
roe  moving  across  a  slope  of  sward  far  out  of  rifle-mark. 
The  breathless  silence  was  significant,  yet  the  moon  stone 
in  a  broad  blue  heaven.  Tongue  out  of  mouth  trotted  lae 
little  dog  after  him;  couched  panting  when  he  stopped 
an  instant;  rose  weariedly  when  he  started  afresh.  Now 
and  then  a  large  white  night-moth  flitted  through  the 
dusk  of  the  forest. 

On  a  barren  corner  of  the  wooded  highland  looking  in- 
land stood  grey  topless  ruins  set  in  nettles  and  rank 
grass-blades.  Richard  mechanically  sat  down  on  the 
crumbling  flints  to  rest,  and  listened  to  the  panting  of 
the  dog.  Sprinkled  at  his  feet  were  emerald  lights: 
hundreds  of  glow-worms  studded  the  dark  d»y  ground. 

He  sat  and  eyed  them,  thinking  not  at  all.  His  energies 
were  expended  in  action.  He  sat  as  a  part  of  tlie  ruins, 
and  the  moon  turned  his  shadow  Westward  from  the 
South.  Overhead,  as  she  declined,  long  ripples  of  silver 
cloud  were  imperceptibly  stealing  toward  her.     They  were 


NATURE   SPEAKS  427 

the  van  of  a  tempest.  He  did  not  observe  them  or  the 
leaves  beginning  to  chatter.  When  he  again  pursued  his 
course  with  his  face  to  the  Rhine,  a  huge  mountain 
appeared  to  rise  sheer  over  him,  and  he  had  it  in  his 
mind  to  scale  it.  He  got  no  nearer  to  the  base  of  it 
for  all  his  vigorous  outstepping.  The  ground  began  to 
dip;  he  lost  sight  of  the  sky.  Then  heavy  thunder-drops 
struck  his  cheek,  the  leaves  were  singing,  the  earth 
breathed,  it  was  black  before  him  and  behind.  All  at  once 
the  thunder  spoke.  The  mountain  he  had  marked  was 
bursting  over  him. 

Up  started  the  whole  forest  in  violet  fire.  He  saw  the 
country  at  the  foot  of  the  hills  to  the  bounding  Rhine 
gleam,  quiver,  extinguished.  Then  there  were  pauses; 
and  the  lightning  seemed  as  the  eye  of  heaven,  and  the 
thunder  as  the  tongue  of  heaven,  each  alternately  ad- 
dressing him;  filling  him  with  awful  rapture.  Alone  there 
— sole  human  creature  among  the  grandeurs  and  mysteries 
of  storm — he  felt  the  representative  of  his  kind,  and  his 
spirits  rose,  and  marched,  and  exulted,  let  it  be  glory, 
let  it  be  ruin !  Lower  down  the  lightened  abysses  of  air 
rolled  the  wrathful  crash:  then  white  thrusts  of  light 
were  darted  from  the  sky,  and  great  curving  ferns,  seen 
steadfast  in  pallor  a  second,  were  supernaturally  agitated, 
and  vanished.  Then  a  shrill  song  roused  in  the  leaves 
and  the  herbage.  Prolonged  and  louder  it  sounded,  as 
deeper  and  heavier  the  deluge  pressed.  A  mighty  force 
of  water  satisfied  the  desire  of  the  earth.  Even  in  this, 
drenched  as  he  was  by  the  first  outpouring,  Richard  had 
a  savage  pleasure.  Keeping  in  motion,  he  was  scarcely 
conscious  of  the  wet,  and  the  grateful  breath  of  the  weeds 
was  refreshing.  Suddenly  he  stopped  short,  lifting  a 
curious  nostril.  He  fancied  he  smelt  meadow-sweet.  He 
had  never  seen  the  flower  in  Rhineland — never  thought 
of  it;  and  it  would  hardly  be  met  with  in  a  forest.  He 
was  sure  he  smelt  it  fresh  in  dews.  His  little  companion 
wagged  a  miserable  wet  tail  some  way  in  advance.  He 
went  on  slowly,  thinking  indistinctly.  After  two  or  three 
steps  he  stooped  and  stretched  out  his  hand  to  feel  for 
the  flower,  having,  he  knew  not  why,  a  strong  wish  to 
verify  its  growth  there.  Groping  about,  his  hand  en- 
countered something  warm  that  started  at  his  touch,  and 


428       THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVERED 

he,  with  the  instinct  we  have,  seized  it,  and  lifted  it  to 
look  at  it.  The  creature  was  very  small,  evidently  quite 
young.  Richard's  eyes,  now  accustomed  to  the  darkness, 
were  able  to  discern  it  for  what  it  was,  a  tiny  leveret, 
and  he  supposed  that  the  dog  had  probably  frightened 
its  dam  just  before  he  found  it.  He  put  the  little  thing 
on  one  hand  in  his  breast,  and  stepped  out'  rapidly  as 
before. 

The  rain  was  now  steady;  from  every  tree  a  fountain 
poured.  So  cool  and  easy  had  his  mind  become  that 
he  was  speculating  on  what  kind  of  shelter  the  birds 
could  find,  and  how  the  butterflies  and  moths  saved  their 
coloured  wings  from  washing.  Folded  close  they  might 
hang  under  a  leaf,  he  thought.  Lovingly  he  looked  into 
the  dripping  darkness  of  the  coverts  on  each  side,  as 
one  of  their  children.  He  was  next  musing  on  a  strange 
sensation  he  experienced.  It  ran  up  one  arm  with  an 
indescribable  thrill,  but  communicated  nothing  to  his 
heart.  It  was  purely  physical,  ceased  for  a  time,  and 
reoommenoed,  till  he  had  it  all  through  his  blood,  wonder- 
fully thrilling.  He  grew  aware  that  the  little  thing  he 
carried  in  his  breast  was  licking  his  hand  there.  The 
small  rough  tongue  going  over  and  over  the  palm  of 
his  hand  produced  the  strange  sensation  he  felt.  Now 
that  he  knew  the  cause,  the  marvel  ended;  but  now  that 
he  knew  the  cause,  his  heart  was  touched  and  made 
more  of  it.  The  gentle  scraping  continued  without  in- 
termission as  on  he  walked.  What  did  it  say  to  him? 
Human  tongue  could  not  have  said  so  much  just  then. 

A  pale  grey  light  on  the  skirts  of  the  flying  tempest  dis- 
played the  dawn.  Richard  was  walking  hurriedly.  The 
green  drenched  weeds  lay  all  about  in  his  path,  bent 
thick,  and  the  forest  drooped  glimmeringly.  Impelled 
as  a  man  who  feels  a  revelation  mounting  obscurely  to 
his  brain,  Richard  was  passing  one  of  these  little  forest- 
chapels,  hung  with  votive  wreaths,  where  the  peasant, 
halts  to  kneel  and  pray.  Cold,  still,  in  the  twilight  it 
stood,  rain-drops  pattering  round  it.  He  looked  within, 
and  saw  the  Virgin  holding  her  Child.  He  moved  by. 
But  not'  many  slops  had  he  gone  ere  his  strength  went 
out  of  him,  and  he  shuddered.  What  was  it?  He  asked 
not.     He   was   in    other   hands.     Vivid    as   lightning   the 


Again  the  magian  conflict       429 

Spirit  of  Life  illumined  him.  He  felt  in  his  heart  the 
cry  of  his  child,  his  darling's  touch.  With  shut  eyes  he 
saw  them  both.  They  drew  him  from  the  depths;  they 
led  him  a  blind  and  tottering  man.  And  as  they  led  him 
he  had  a  sense  of  purification  so  sweet  he  shuddered 
again  and  again. 

When  he  looked  out  from  his  trance  on  the  breathing 
world,  the  small  birds  hopped  and  chirped:  warm  fresh 
sunlight  was  over  all  the  hills.  He  was  on  the  edge  of 
the  forest,  entering  a  plain  clothed  with  ripe  corn  under 
a  spacious  morning  sky. 


CHAPTER   XLIII 
AGAIN  THE  MAGIAN   CONFLICT 

They  heard  at  Raynham  that  Richard  was  coming. 
Lucy  had  the  news  first  in  a  letter  from  Ripton  Thomp- 
son, who  met  him  at  Bonn.  Ripton  did  not  say  that  he 
had  employed  his  vacation  holiday  on  purpose  to  use  his 
efforts  to  induce  his  dear  friend  to  return  to  his  wife; 
and  finding  Richard  already  on  his  way,  of  course  Rip- 
ton said  nothing  to  him,  but  affected  to  be  travelling 
for  his  pleasure  like  any  cockney.  Richard  also  wrote 
to  her.  In  case  she  should  have  gone  to  the  sea  he 
directed  her  to  send  word  to  his  hotel  that  he  might 
not  lose  an  hour.  His  letter  was  sedate  in  tone,  very 
sweet  to  her.  Assisted  by  the  faithful  female  Berry,  she 
was  conquering  an  Aphorist. 

"Woman's  reason  is  in  the  milk  of  her  breasts,"  was  one 
of  his  rough  notes,  due  to  an  observation  of  Lucy's 
maternal  cares.  Let  us  remember,  therefore,  we  men 
who  have  drunk  of  it  largely  there,  that  she  has  it. 

Mrs.  Berry  zealously  apprised  him  how  early  Master 
Richard's  education  had  commenced,  and  the  great  future 
historian  he  must  consequently  be.  This  trait  in  Lucy 
was  of  itself  sufficient  to  win  Sir  Austin. 

"Here  my  plan  with  Richard  was  false,"  he  reflected: 
"in  presuming  that  anything  save  blind  fortuity  would 


430      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  I KVEREL 

bring  him  such  a  mate  as  he  should  have."  He  came  to 
add:  "And  has  got!" 

He  could  admit  now  that  instinct  had  so  far  beaten 
science;  for  as  Richard  was  coming,  as  all  were  to  be 
happy,  his  wisdom  embraced  them  all  paternally  as  the 
author  of  their  happiness.  Between  him  and  Lucy  a 
tinder  intimacy  grew. 

"I  told  you  she  could  talk,  sir,"  said  Adrian. 

"She  thinks!"  said  the  baronet. 

The  delicate  question  how  she  was  to  treat  her  uncle, 
he  settled  generously.  Farmer  Blaize  should  come  up  to 
Raynham  when  he  would:  Lucy  must  visit  him  at  least 
three  times  a  week.  He  had  Farmer  Blaize  and  Mrs. 
Berry  to  study,  and  really  excellent  Aphorisms  sprang 
from  the  plain  human  bases  this  natural  couple  presented. 

"It  will  do  us  no  harm."  he  thought,  "some  of  the 
honest  blood  of  the  soil  in  our  veins."  And  he  was 
content  in  musing  on  the  parentage  of  the  little  cradled 
boy.  A  common  sight  for  those  who  had  the  entry  to 
the  library  was  the  baronet  cherishing  the  hand  of  his 
daughter-in-law. 

So  Richard  was  crossing  the  sea,  and  hearts  at'  Rayn- 
ham were  beating  quicker  measures  as  the  minutes  pro- 
gressed. That  night  he  would  be  with  them.  Sir  Austin 
gave  Lucy  a  longer,  wanner  salute  when  she,  came  down 
to  breakfast  in  the  morning.  Mrs.  Berry  waxed  thrice 
amorous.  "It's  your  second  bridals,  ye  sweet  livin' 
widow!"  she  said.  "Thanks  be  the  Lord!  it's  the  same 
man  too!  and  a  baby  over  the  bed-post,"  she  appended 
seriously. 

"Strange,"  Berry  declared  it  to  be,  "strange  I  feel  none 
o'  this  to  my  Berry  now.  All  my  feelin's  o'  love  seem 
t'ave  gone  into  you  two  sweet  chicks." 

In  fact,  the  faithless  male  Berry  complained  of  being 
treated  badly,  and  affected  a  superb  jealousy  of  the  baby; 
but  the  good  dame  told  him  that  if  lie  suffered  at  all  he 
Buffered  his  due.  Berry's  position  was  decidedly  uncom- 
fortable. It  could  not  be  concealed  from  the  lower  house- 
hold that  he  had  a  wife  in  the  establishment,  and  I'm-  the 
complications  this  gave  rise  to,  his  wife  would  not  legiti- 
mately console  him.  Lucy  did  intercede,  hut  Mrs.  Berry 
was   obdurate.      She    averred   she   would   not   give    up    the 


AGAIN  THE  MAGIAX  CONFLICT  431 

child  till  he  was  weaned.  "Then,  perhaps,"  she  said 
prospectively.  "You '  see  I  ain't  so  soft  as  you  thought 
for." 

"You're  a  very  unkind,  vindictive  old  woman,"  said 
Lucy. 

"Belike  I  am,"  Mrs.  Berry  was  proud  to  agree.  We 
like  a  new  character,  now  and  then.  Berry  had  delayed 
too  long. 

Were  it  not  notorious  that  the  straightlaced  prudish 
dare  not  listen  to  the  natural  chaste,  certain  things  Mrs. 
Berry  thought  it  advisable  to  impart  to  the  young  wife 
with  regard  to  Berry's  infidelity,  and  the  charity  women 
should  have  towards  sinful  men,  might  here  be  repro- 
duced. Enough  that  she  thought  proper  to  broach  the 
matter,  and  cite  her  own  Christian  sentiments,  now  that 
she  was  indifferent  in  some  degree. 

Oily  calm  is  on  the  sea.  At  Raynhani  they  look  up  at 
the  sky  and  speculate  that  Richard  is  approaching  fairly 
speeded.  He  comes  to  throw  himself  on  his  darling's 
mercy.  Lucy  irradiated  over  forest  and  sea,  tempest  and 
peace — to  her  the  hero  comes  humbly.  Great  is  that  day 
when  we  see  our  folly!  Ripton  and  he  were  the  friends 
of  old.  Richard  encouraged  him  to  talk  of  the  two  he 
could  be  eloquent  on,  and  Ripton,  whose  secret  vanity 
was  in  his  powers  of  speech,  never  tired  of  enumerating 
Lucy's  virtues,  and  the  peculiar  attributes  of  the  baby. 

"She  did  not  say  a  word  against  me,  Rip?" 

"Against  you,  Richard!  The  moment  she  knew  she 
was  to  be  a  mother,  she  thought  of  nothing  but  her 
duty  to  the  child.     She's  one  who  can't  think  of  herself." 

"You've  seen  her  at  Raynham,  Rip  ?" 

"Yes,  once.  They  asked  me  down.  And  your  father's 
so  fond  of  her — I'm  sure  he  thinks  no  woman  like  her, 
and  he's   right.     She  is  so  lovely,  and  so  good." 

Richard  was  too  full  of  blame  of  himself  to  blame  his 
father:  too  British  to  expose  his  emotions.  Ripton  divined 
how  deep  and  changed  they  were  by  his  manner.  He 
had  cast  aside  the  hero,  and  however  Ripton  had  obeyed 
him  and  looked  up  to  him  in  the  heroic  time,  he  loved 
him  tenfold  now.  He  told  his  friend  how  much  Lucy's 
mere  womanly  sweetness  and  excellence  had  done  for 
him,   and  Richard   contrasted  his   own   profitless   extrav- 


432      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

agance  with  the  patient  beauty  of  his  dear  home  angel. 
He  was  not  one  to  take  her  on  "the  easy  terms  that 
offered.  There  was  that  to  do  which  made  his  cheek 
burn  as  he  thought  of  it,  but  he  was  going  to  do  it, 
even  though  it  lost'  her  to  him.  Just  to  see  her  and 
kneel  to  her  was  joy  sufficient  to  sustain  him,  and  warm 
his  blood  in  the  prospect.  They  marked  the  white  cliffs 
growing  over  the  water.  Nearer,  the  sun  made  them 
lustrous.  Houses  and  people  seemed  to  welcome  the  wild 
youth  to  common  sense,  simplicity,  and  home. 

They  were  in  town  by  mid-day.  Richard  had  a  mo- 
mentary idea  of  not  driving  to  his  hotel  for  letters.  After 
a  short  debate  he  determined  to  go  there.  The  porter 
said  he  had  two  letters  for  Mr.  Richard  Feverel — one  had 
been  waiting  some  time.  He  went  to  the  box  and  fetched 
them.  The  first  Richard  opened  was  from  Lucy,  and 
as  he  read  it,  Ripton  observed  the  colour  deepen  on  his 
face,  while  a  quivering  smile  played  about  his  mouth, 
lie  opened  the  other  indifferently.  It  began  without  any 
form  of  address.  Richard's  forehead  darkened  at  the 
signature.  This  letter  was  in  a  sloping  feminine  hand, 
and  flourished  with  light  strokes  all  over,  like  a  field 
of  the  bearded  barley.     Thus  it  ran : 

"I  know  you  are  in  a  rage  with  me  because  I  would 
not  consent  to  ruin  you,  you  foolish  fellow.  What  do 
you  call  it?  Going  to  that  unpleasant  place  together. 
Thank  you,  my  milliner  is  not  ready  yet,  and  I  want  to 
make  a  good  appearance  when  I  do  go.  I  suppose  I 
shall  have  to  some  day.  Your  health,  Sir  Richard.  Now 
let  me  speak  to  you  seriously.  Go  home  to  your  wife 
at  once.  But  I  know  the  sort  of  fellow  you  are,  and  I 
must  be  plain  with  you.  Did  I  ever  say  I  loved  you? 
You  may  hate  me  as  much  as  you  please,  but  I  will  save 
you  from  being  a  fool. 

"Now  listen  to  me.  You  know  my  relations  with  Mount. 
That  least  Brayder  offered  to  pay  all  my  debts  and  set 
me  afloat,  if  I  would  keep  you  in  town.  I  declare  on 
my  honour  I  had  no  idea  why,  and  I  did  not  agree  to  it. 
But  you  were  such  a  handsome  fellow — I  noticed  you  in 
the  park  before  I  heard  a  word  of  you.  But  then  you 
fought  shy — you  were  just  as  tempting  as  a  girl.     You 


AGAIN  THE  MAGIAN  CONFLICT  433 

stung  me.  Do  you  know  what  that  is?  I  would  make 
you  care  for  me,  and  we  know  how  it  ended,  without 
any  intention  of  mine,  I  swear.  I'd  have  cut  off  my  hand 
rather  than  do  you  any  harm,  upon  my  honour.  Cir- 
cumstances! Then  I  saw  it  was  all  up  between  us. 
Brayder  came  and  began  to  chaff  about  you.  I  dealt 
the  animal  a  stroke  on  the  face  with  my  riding-whip — 
I  shut  him  up  pretty  quick.  Do  you  think  I  would  let 
a  man  speak  about  you? — I  was  going  to  swear.  You 
see  I  remember  Dick's  lessons.  O  my  God!  I  do  feel 
unhappy. — Brayder  offered  me  money.  Go  and  think  I 
took  it,  if  you  like.  What  do  I  care  what  anybody  thinks ! 
Something  that  blackguard  said  made  me  suspicious.  I 
went  down  to  the  Isle  of  Wight  where  Mount  was,  and 
your  wife  was  just  gone  with  an  old  lady  who  came 
and  took  her  away.  I  should  so  have  liked  to  see  her. 
You  said,  you  remember,  she  would  take  me  as  a  sister, 
and  treat  me — I  laughed  at  it  then.  My  God!  how  I 
could  cry  now,  if  water  did  any  good  to  a  devil,  as  you 
politely  call  poor  me.  I  called  at  your  house  and  saw 
your  man-servant,  who  said  Mount  had  just  been  there. 
In  a  minute  it  struck  me.  I  was  sure  Mount  was  after 
a  woman,  but  it  never  struck  me  that  woman  was  ~*our 
wife.  Then  I  saw  why  they  wanted  me  to  keep  you 
away.  I  went  to  Brayder.  You  know  how  I  hate  him. 
I  made  love  to  the  man  to  get  it  out  of  him.  Richard ! 
my  word  of  honour,  they  have  planned  to  carry  her 
off,  if  Mount  finds  he  cannot  seduce  her.  Talk  of  devils! 
He's  one;  but  he  is  not  so  bad  as  Brayder.  I  cannot 
forgive  a  mean  dog  his  villany. 

"Now  after  this,  I  am  quite  sure  you  are  too  much  of 
a  man  to  stop  away  from  her  another  moment.  I  have 
no  more  to  say.  I  suppose  we  shall  not  see  each  other 
again,  so  good-bye,  Dick!  I  fancy  I  hear  you  cursing 
me.  Why  can't  you  feel  like  other  men  on  the  subject? 
But  if  you  were  like  the  rest  of  them  I  should  not  have 
cared  for  you  a  farthing.  I  have  not  worn  lilac  since 
I  saw  you  last.  I'll  be  buried  in  your  colour,  Dick. 
That  will  not  offend  you — will  it? 

"You  are  not  going  to  believe  I  took  the  money?  If 
I  thought  you  thought  that — it  makes  me  feel  like  a 
devil  only  to  fancy  you  think  it. 


434      THE  ORDEAL  OE  RICHAKD  EEVEREL 

"The  first  time  you  meei  Brayder,  cane  him  publicly. 

"Adieul  Say  it's  because  you  don't  like  his  face.  I 
suppose  devils  must  not  say  Adieu.  Here's  plain  old 
good-bye,  then,  between  you  and  me.  (Jood-bye,  dear 
Dick!     You   won't  think  that  of  me? 

".May  I  eat  dry  bread  to  the  day  of  my  death  if  I  took 
or  ever  will  touch  a  scrap  of  their  money. 

Bella." 

Richard  folded  up  the  letter  silently. 

"Jump  into  the  cab,"  he  said  to   Ripton. 

"Anything  the  matter,  Richard?" 

'•No." 

The  driver  received  instructions.  Richard  sat  without 
speaking.  His  friend  knew  that  face.  He  asked  whether 
there  was  had  news  in  the  letter.  For  answer,  he  had  the 
lie  circumstantial.  He  ventured  to  remark  that  they  were 
going  the  wrong  way. 

"It's  the  right  way,"  cried  Richard,  and  his  jaws  were 
hard  and  square,  and  his  eyes  looked  heavy  and  full. 

Ripton  said  no  more,  but  thought. 

The  cabman  pulled  up  at  a  Club.  A  gentleman,  in 
whom  Ripton  recognized  the  Hon.  Peter  Brayder,  was 
just  then  swinging  a  leg  over  his  horse,  with  one  foot 
in  the  stirrup.  Hearing  his  name  called,  the  Hon.  Peter 
turned  about,  and  stretched  an  affable  hand. 

"Is  Mountfalcon  in  town?"  said  Richard,  taking  the 
horse's  reins  instead  of  the  gentlemanly  hand.  J I  is  voice 
and  aspect  were  quite  friendly. 

"Mount?"  Brayder  replied,  curiously  watching  the  ac- 
tion; "yes.     He's  off  this  evening." 

"He  is  in  town?"  Richard  released  his  horse.  "I  want 
to  see  him.     Where  is  he?" 

The  young  man  looked  pleasant :  that  which  might 
have  aroused  Brayder's  suspicions  was  an  old  affair  in 
parasitical  register  by  this  time.  ''Want  to  see  him? 
What  about?"  he  said  carelessly,  and   gave  the  address. 

'My  the  way,"  he  sang  out,  "we  thought  of  putting 
your  name  down,  Feverel."  He  indicated  the  lofty 
structure.      "What    do   you    say?" 

Richard  nodded  hack  at  him,  crying,  "Hurry."  Brayder 
returned  the  nod,  and  those  who  promenaded  the  district 


AGAIN  THE  MAGIAN  CONFLICT  435 

soon  beheld  his  body  in  elegant  motion  to  the  stepping 
of  his  well-earned  horse. 

"What  do  you  want  to  see  Lord  Mountfalcon  for, 
Richard?"  said  Ripton. 

"I  just  want  to  see  him,"  Richard  replied. 

Ripton  was  left  in  the  cab  at  the  door  of  my  lord's 
residence.  He  had  to  wait  there  a  space  of  about  ten 
minutes,  when  Richard  returned  with  a  clearer  visage, 
though  somewhat  heated.  He  stood  outside  the  cab,  and 
Ripton  was  conscious  of  being  examined  by  those  strong 
grey  eyes.  As  clear  as  speech  he  understood  them  to  say 
to  him,  "You  won't  do,"  but  which  of  the  many  things 
on  earth  he  would  not  do  for  he  was  at  a  loss  to  think. 

"Go  down  to  Raynham,  Ripton.  Say  I  shall  be  there 
to-night  certainly.  Don't  bother  me  with  questions. 
Drive  off  at  once.  Or  wait.  Get'  another  cab.  I'll  take 
this." 

Ripton  was  ejected,  and  found  himself  standing  alone  in 
the  street.  As  he  was  on  the  point  of  rushing  after  the 
galloping  cab-horse  to  get  a  word  of  elucidation,  he  heard 
some  one  speak  behind  him. 

"You  are  Feverel's  friend?" 

Ripton  had  an  eye  for  lords.  An  ambrosial  footman, 
standing  at  the  open  door  of  Lord  Mountfalcon's  house, 
and  a  gentleman  standing  on  the  door-step,  told  him  that 
he  was  addressed  by  that  nobleman.  He  was  requested  to 
step  into  the  house.  When  they  were  alone,  Lord  Mount- 
falcon,  slightly  ruffled,  said :  "Feverel  has  insulted  me 
grossly.  I  must  meet  him,  of  course.  It's  a  piece  of 
infernal  folly ! — I  suppose  he  is  not  quite  mad  ?" 

Ripton's  only  definite  answer  was  a  gasping  iteration 
of  "My  lord." 

My  lord  resumed :  "I  am  perfectly  guiltless  of  offending 
him,  as  far  as  I  know.  In  fact,  I  had  a  friendship  for 
him.    Is  he  liable  to  fits  of  this  sort  of  thing?" 

Not  yet  at  conversation-point,  Ripton  stammered :  "Fits, 
my  lord?" 

"Ah !"  went  the  other,  eying  Ripton  in  lordly  cognizant 
style.     "You  know  nothing  of  this  business,  perhaps?" 

Ripton  said  he  did  not. 

"Have  you  any  influence  with  him  ?" 

"Not  much,  my  lord.     Only  now  and  then — a  little." 


436       THi:  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

"You  are  not  in  the  Army?" 

The  question  was  quite  unnecessary.  Ripton  confessed 
to  the  law,  and  my  lord  did  not  look  surprised. 

"I  will  not  detain  you,"  he  said,  distantly  bowing. 

Ripton  gave  him  a  commoner's  obeisance;  but  getting 
to  the  door,  the  sense  of  the  matter  enlightened  him. 

"It's  a  duel,  my  lord?" 

"No  help  for  it,  if  his  friends  don't  shut  him  up  in  Bed- 
lam between  this  and  to-morrow  morning." 

Of  all  horrible  things  a  duel  was  the  worst  in  Ripton's 
imagination.  He  stood  holding  the  handle  of  the  door, 
revolving  this  last  chapter  of  calamity  suddenly  opened 
v/here  happiness  had  promised. 

"A  duel!  but  he  won't,  my  lord, — he  mustn't  fight,  my 
lord." 

"He  must  come  on  the  ground,"  said  my  lord,  positively. 

Ripton  ejaculated  unintelligible  stuff.  Finally  Lord 
Mountfalcon  said:  "I  went  out  of  my  way,  sir,  in  speak- 
ing to  you.  I  saw  you  from  the  window.  Your  friend  is 
mad.  Deuced  methodical,  I  admit,  but  mad.  I  have  par- 
ticular reasons  to  wish  not  to  injure  the  young  man,  and 
if  an  apology  is  to  be  got  out  of  him  when  we're  on  the 
ground,  I'll  take  it,  and  we'll  stop  the  damned  scandal,  if 
possible.  You  understand?  I'm  the  insulted  party,  and 
I  shall  only  require  of  him  to  use  formal  words  of  excuse 
to  come  to  an  amicable  settlement.  Let  him  just  say  he 
regrets  it.  Now,  sir,"  the  nobleman  spoke  with  consid- 
erable earnestness,  "should  anything  happen — I  have  the 
honour  to  be  known  to  Mrs.  Feverel — and  I  beg  you  will 
tell  her.  I  very  particularly  desire  you  to  let  her  know 
that  I  was  not  to  blame." 

Mountfalcon  rang  the  bell,  and  bowed  him  out.  With 
this  on  his  mind  Ripton  hurried  down  to  those  who  were 
waiting  in  joyful  trust  at  Raynham. 


THE  LAST   SCENE  437 

CHAPTER    XLIV 

THE  LAST  SCENE 

The  watch  consulted  by  Hippias  alternately  with  his 
pulse,  in  occult  calculation  hideous  to  mark,  said  half-past 
eleven  on  the  midnight.  Adrian,  wearing  a  composedly 
amused  expression  on  his  dimpled  plump  face—held 
slightly  sideways,  aloof  from  paper  and  pen, — sat  writing 
at  the  library  table.  Round  the  baronet's  chair,  in  a  semi- 
circle, were  Lucy,  Lady  Blandish,  Mrs.  Doria,  and  Ripton, 
that  very  ill  bird  at  Raynham.  They  were  silent  as  those 
who  question  the  flying  minutes.  Ripton  had  said  that 
Richard  was  sure  to  come ;  but  the  feminine  eyes  reading 
him  ever  and  anon,  had  gathered  matter  for  disquietude, 
which  increased  as  time  sped.  Sir  Austin  persisted  in  his 
habitual  air  of  speculative  repose. 

Remote  as  he  appeared  from  vulgar  anxiety,  he  was  the 
first  to  speak  and  betray  his  state. 

"Pray,  put  up  that  watch.  Impatience  serves  nothing," 
he  said,  half-turning  hastily  to  his  brother  behind  him. 

Hippias  relinquished  his  pulse  and  mildly  groaned :  "It's 
no  nightmare,  this!" 

His  remark  was  unheard,  and  the  bearing  of  it  remained 
obscure.  Adrian's  pen  made  a  louder  flourish  on  his  man- 
uscript; whether  in  commiseration  or  infernal  glee,  none 
might  say. 

"What  are  you  writing  ?"  the  baronet  inquired  testily  of 
Adrian,  after  a  pause;  twitched,  it  may  be,  by  a  sort  of 
jealousy  of  the  wise  youth's  coolness. 

"Do  I  disturb  you,  sir?"  rejoined  Adrian.  "I  am  en- 
gaged on  a  portion  of  a  Proposal  for  uniting  the  Empires 
and  Kingdoms  of  Europe  under  one  Paternal  Head,  on  the 
model  of  the  ever-to-be-admired  and  lamented  Holy 
Roman.  This  treats  of  the  management  of  Youths  and 
Maids,  and  of  certain  magisterial  functions  connected 
therewith.  Tt  is  decreed  that  these  officers  be  all  and  every 
men  of  science,'  etc."  And  Adrian  cheerily  drove  his  pen 
afresh. 

Mrs.  Doria  took  Lucy's  hand,  mutely  addressing  encour- 


•|:;>       TIIK  OKDKAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

agement  to  her,  and  Lucy  brought  as  much  of  a  smile  as 
she  could  command  to  reply  with. 

"1  fear  we  must  give  him  up  to-night,"  observed  Lady 
Blandish. 

"If  he  said  he  would  come,  he  will  come,"  Sir  Austin 
interjected.  Between  him  and  the  lady  there  was  some- 
thing of  a  contest  secretly  going  on.  lie  was  conscious 
that  nothing  save  perfect  success  would  now  hold  this  self- 
emancipating  mind.     She  had  seen  him  through. 

"He  declared  to  me  he  would  be  certain  to  come,"  said 
Ripton;  but  he  could  look  at  none  of  them  as  he  said  it, 
for  he  was  growing  aware  that  Richard  might  have  de- 
ceived him,  and  was  feeling  like  a  black  conspirator 
against  their  happiness.  He  determined  to  tell  the  baronet 
what  he  knew,  if  Richard  did  not  come  by  twelve. 

"What  is  the  time?"  he  asked  Hippias  in  a  modest  voice. 

"Time  for  me  to  be  in  bed,"  growled  Hippias,  as  if 
everybody  present  had  been  treating  him  badly. 

Mrs.  Berry  came  in  to  apprise  Lucy  that  she  was  wanted 
above.  She  quietly  rose.  Sir  Austin  kissed  her  on  the 
forehead,  saying:  "You  had  better  not  come  down  again, 
my  child."  She  kept  her  eyes  on  him.  "Oblige  me  by 
retiring  for  the  night,"  he  added.  Lucy  shook  their  hand9, 
and  went  out,  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Doria. 

"This  agitation  will  be  bad  for  the  child,"  he  said, 
speaking  to  himself  aloud. 

Lady  Blandish  remarked:  "I  think  she  might  just  as 
well  have  returned.     She  will  not  Bleep." 

"She  will  control  herself  for  the  child's  sake." 

"You  ask  too  much  of  her." 

"Of  her,  not,"  he  emphasized. 

It  was  twelve  o'clock  when  Hippias  shut  his  watch,  and 
said  with  vehemence:  "I'm  convinced  my  circulation 
gradually  and  steadily  decreases!" 

"Going  back  to  the  pre-Harvey  period?"  murmured 
Adrian  as  he  wrote. 

Sir  Austin  and  Lady  Blandish  knew  well  that  any  com- 
ment would  introduce  them  to  the  interior  of  his  machin- 
ery, the  external  view  of  which  was  sufficiently  harrowing; 
so  they  maintained  a  discreet  reserve.  Taking  it  for  ac- 
quiescence in  his  deplorable  condition,  Hippias  resumed 
despairingly:  "It's  a  fact.     I've  brought  you  to  see  th?t. 


THE  LAST   SCENE  439 

No  one  can  be  more  moderate  than  I  am,  and  yet  I  get 
worse.  My  system  is  organically  sound — I  believe:  I  do 
every  possible  thing,  and  yet  I  get  worse.  Nature  never 
forgives!     I'll  go  to  bed." 

The  Dyspepsy  departed  unconsoled. 

Sir  Austin  took  up  his  brother's  thought:  "I  suppose 
nothing  short  of  a  miracle  helps  us  when  we  have  offended 
her." 

"Nothing  short  of  a  quack  satisfies  us,"  said  Adrian, 
applying  wax  to  an  envelope  of  official  dimensions. 

Ripton  sat  accusing  his  soul  of  cowardice  while  they 
talked;  haunted  by  Lucy's  last  look  at  him.  He  got  up  his 
courage  presently  and  went  round  to  Adrian,  who,  after  a 
few  whispered  words,  deliberately  rose  and  accompanied 
him  out  of  the  room,  shrugging.  When  they  had  gone, 
Lady  Blandish  said  to  the  baronet:  "He  is  not  coming." 

"To-morrow,  then,  if  not  to-night,"  he  replied.  "But  I 
say  he  will  come  to-night." 

"You  do  really  wish  to  see  him  united  to  his  wife?" 

The  question  made  the  baronet  raise  his  brows  with 
some  displeasure. 

"Can  you  ask  me  ?" 

"I  mean,"  said  the  ungenerous  woman,  "your  System 
will  require  no  further  sacrifices  from  either  of  them?" 

When  he  did  answer,  it  was  to  say:  "I  think  her  alto- 
gether a  superior  person.  I  confess  I  should  scarcely  have 
hoped  to  find  one  like  her." 

"Admit  that  your  science  does  not  accomplish  every- 
thing." 

"No:  it  was  presumptuous — beyond  a  certain  point," 
said  the  baronet,  meaning  deep  things. 

Lady  Blandish  eyed  him.  "Ah  me !"  she  sighed,  "if  we 
would  always  be  true  to  our  own  wisdom !" 

"You  are  very  singular  to-night,  Emmeline,"  Sir  Austin 
stopped  his  walk  in  front  of  her. 

In  truth,  was  she  not  unjust?  Here  was  an  offending 
son  freely  forgiven.  Here  was  a  young  woman  of  humble 
birth  freely  accepted  into  his  family  and  permitted  to 
stand  upon  her  qualities.  Who  would  have  done  more — 
or  as  much?  This  lady,  for  instance,  had  the  case  been 
hers,  would  have  fought  it.  All  the  people  of  position 
that  he  was  acquainted  with  would  have  fought  it,  and 


440      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

that  without  feeling  it  so  peculiarly.  But  while  the 
baronet  thought  this,  he  did  not  think  of  the  exceptional 
education  his  son  had  received.  He  took  the  common 
ground  of  fathers,  forgetting  his  System  when  it  was  ab- 
solutely on  trial.  False  to  his  son  it  could  not  be  said 
that  he  had  been:  false  to  his  System  he  was.  Others 
saw  it  plainly,  but  he  had  to  learn  his  lesson  by  and  by. 

Lady  Blandish  gave  him  her  face;  then  stretched  her 
hand  to  the  table,  saying,  "Well!  well!"  She  fingered  a 
half-opened  parcel  lying  there,  and  drew  forth  a  little  book 
she  recognized.     "Ha!  what  is  this?"  she  said. 

"Benson  returned  it  this  morning,"  he  informed  her. 
"The  stupid  fellow  took  it  away  with  him — by  mischance, 
I  am  bound  to  believe." 

It  was  nothing  other  than  the  old  Note-book.  Lady 
Blandish  turned  over  the  leaves,  and  came  upon  the  later 
jottings. 

She  read:  "A  maker  of  Proverbs — what  is  he  but  a 
narrow  mind  with  the  mouthpiece  of  narrower?" 

"I  do  not  agree  with  that,"  she  observed.  He  was  in  no 
humour  for  argument. 

"Was  your  humility  feigned  when  you  wrote  it?" 

He  merely  said:  "Consider  the  sort  of  minds  influenced 
by  set  sayings.  A  proverb  is  the  half-way-house  to  an 
Idea,  I  conceive;  and  the  majority  rest  there  content:  can 
the  keeper  of  such  a  house  be  flattered  by  his  company?" 

She  felt  her  feminine  intelligence  swaying  under  him 
again.  There  must  be  greatness  in  a  man  who  could  thus 
speak  of  his  own  special  and  admirable  aptitude. 

Further  she  read,  "Which  is  the  coward  among  us? — 
He  who  sneers  at  the  failings  of  Humanity!" 

"Oh!  that  is  true!  How  much  I  admire  that!"  cried 
the  dark-eyed  dame  as  she  beamed  intellectual  raptures. 

Another  Aphorism  seemed  closely  to  apply  to  him: 
"There  is  no  more  grievous  sight,  as  there  is  no  greater 
perversion,  than  a  wise  man  at  the  mercy  of  his  feelings." 

"He  must  have  written  it,"  she  thought,  "when  he  had 
himself  for  an  example — Btrange  man  that  he  is!" 

Lady  Blandish  was  still  inclined  to  submission,  though 
decidedly  insubordinate.  She  had  once  been  fairly  con- 
quered :  but  if  what  she  reverenced  as  a  great  mind  could 
conquer  her,  it  must  be  a  creat  man  that  should  hold  her 


THE  LAST   SCENE  441 

captive.  The  Autumn  Primrose  blooms  for  the  loftiest 
manhood;  is  a  vindictive  flower  in  lesser  hands.  Never- 
theless Sir  Austin  had  only  to  be  successful,  and  this 
lady's  allegiance  was  his  for  ever.     The  trial  was  at  hand. 

She  said  again:  "He  is  not  coming  to-night,"  and  the 
baronet,  on  whose  visage  a  contemplative  pleased  look  had 
been  rising  for  a  minute  past,  quietly  added:  "He  is 
come." 

Richard's  voice  was  heard  in  the  hall. 

There  was  commotion  all  over  the  house  at  the  return 
of  the  young  heir.  Berry,  seizing  every  possible  occasion 
to  approach  his  Bessy  now  that  her  involuntary  coldness 
had  enhanced  her  value — "Such  is  men!"  as  the  soft 
woman  reflected — Berry  ascended  to  her  and  delivered  the 
news  in  pompous  tones  and  wheedling  gestures.  "The 
best  word  you've  spoke  for  many  a  day,"  says  she,  and 
leaves  him  unfee'd,  in  an  attitude,  to  hurry  and  pour  bliss 
into  Lucy's  ears. 

"Lord  be  praised!"  she  entered  the  adjoining  room 
exclaiming,  "we're  goin'  to  be  happy  at  last.  They  men 
have  come  to  their  senses.  I  could  cry  to  your  Virgin 
and  kiss  your  Cross,  you  sweet!" 

"Hush !"  Lucy  admonished  her,  and  crooned  over  the 
child  on  her  knees.  The  tiny  open  hands,  full  of  sleep, 
clutched;  the  large  blue  eyes  started  awake;  and  his 
mother,  all  trembling  and  palpitating,  knowing,  but 
thirsting  to  hear  it,  covered  him  with  her  tresses,  and 
tried  to  still  her  frame,  and  rocked,  and  sang  low,  inter- 
dicting even  a  whisper  from  bursting  Mrs.  Berry. 

Richard  had  come.  He  was  under  his  father's  roof,  in 
the  old  home  that  had  so  soon  grown  foreign  to  him.  He 
stood  close  to  his  wife  and  child.  He  might  embrace 
them  both ;  and  now  the  fulness  of  his  anguish  and  the 
madness  of  the  thing  he  had  done  smote  the  young  man : 
now  first  he  tasted  hard  earthly  misery. 

Had  not  God  spoken  to  him  in  the  tempest?  Had  not 
the  finger  of  heaven  directed  him  homeward  ?  And  he  had 
come:  here  he  stood:  congratulations  were  thick  in  hi3 
ears:  the  cup  of  happiness  was  held  to  him,  and  he  was 
invited  to  drink  of  it.  Which  was  the  dream?  his  work 
for  the  morrow,  or  this  ?  But  for  a  leaden  load  that  he 
felt  like  a  bullet  in  his  breast,  he  might  have  thought  the 


4  12      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

morrow  with  death  sitting  on  it  was  the  dream.  Yes;  he 
was  awake.  Now  iirst  the  cloud  of  phantasms  cleared 
away:  he  beheld  his  roal  life,  and  the  colours  of  true 
human  joy:  and  on  the  morrow  perhaps  he  was  to  close 
his  eyes  on  them.  That  leaden  bullet  dispersed  all  un- 
realities. 

They  stood  about  him  in  the  hall,  his  father,  Lady 
Blandish,  Mrs.  Doria,  Adrian,  Ripton;  people  who  had 
known  him  long.  They  shook  his  hand :  they  gave  him 
greetings  he  had  never  before  understood  the  worth  of  or 
the  meaning.  Now  that  he  did  they  mocked  him.  There 
was  Mrs.  Berry  in  the  background  bobbing,  there  was 
Martin  Berry  bowing,  there  was  Tom  Bakewell  grinning. 
Somehow  he  loved  the  sight  of  these  better. 

"Ah,  my  old  Penelope!"  he  said,  breaking  through  the 
circle  of  his  relatives  to  go  to  her.     "Tom !  how  are  you  ?" 

"I Hess  ye,  my  Mr.  Richard,"  whimpered  Mrs.  Berry,  and 
whispered  rosily,  "all's  agreeable  now.  She's  waiting  up 
in  bed  for  ye,  like  a  new-born." 

The  person  who  betrayed  most  agitation  was  Mrs.  Doria. 
She  held  close  to  him,  and  eagerly  studied  his  face  and 
every  movement,  as  one  accustomed  to  masks.  "You  are 
pale,  Richard?"  He  pleaded  exhaustion.  "What  detained 
you,  dear?"  "Business,"  he  said.  She  drew  him  im- 
periously apart  from  the  others.  "Richard!  h  it  over?" 
He  asked  what  she  meant.  "The  dreadful  duel,  Richard." 
He  looked  darkly.  "Is  it  over?  is  it  done.  Richard?" 
Getting  no  immediate  answer,  she  continued— and  such 
was  her  agitation  that  the  words  were  shaken  by  pieces 
from  her  mouth :  "Don't  pretend  not  to  understand  me, 
Richard!  Is  it  over?  Are  you  going  to  die  the  death  of 
my  child — Clare's  death?  Is  not  one  in  a  family  enough? 
Think  of  your  dear  young  wife — we  love  her  so! — your 
child! — your  father!     Will  you  kill  us  all?" 

Mrs.  Doria  had  chanced  to  overhear  a  trifle  of  Ripton's 
communication  to  Adrian,  and  had  built  thereon  with  the 
dark  forces  of  a  stricken  soul. 

Wondering  how  this  woman  could  have  divined  it,  Rich- 
ard calmly  said:  "It's  arranged — the  matter  you  allude 
to." 

"Indeed!   truly,  dear?" 

"Yes." 


THE  LAST   SCENE  443 

"Tell  me" — but  he  broke  away  from  her,  saying:  "You 
shall  hear  the  particulars  to-morrow,"  and  she,  not  alive 
to  double  meaning  just  then,  allowed  him  to  leave  her. 

He  had  eaten  nothing  for  twelve  hours,  and  called  for 
food,  but  he  would  take  only  dry  bread  and  claret,  which 
was  served  on  a  tray  in  the  library.  He  said,  without  any 
show  of  feeling,  that  he  must  eat  before  he  saw  the 
younger  hope  of  Raynham:  so  there  he  sat,  breaking 
bread,  and  eating  great  mouthfuls,  and  washing  them 
down  with  wine,  talking  of  what  they  would.  His  father's 
studious  mind  felt  itself  years  behind  him,  he  was  so 
completely  altered.  He  had  the  precision  of  speech,  the 
bearing  of  a  man  of  thirty.  Indeed  he  had  all  that  the 
necessity  for  cloaking  an  infinite  misery  gives.  But  let 
things  be  as  they  might  he  was  there.  For  one  night  in 
his  life  Sir  Austin's  perspective  of  the  future  was 
bounded  by  the  night. 

"Will  you  go  to  your  wife  now?"  he  had  asked,  and 
Richard  had  replied  with  a  strange  indifference.  The  bar- 
onet' thought  it  better  that  their  meeting  should  be  private, 
and  sent  word  for  Lucy  to  wait  upstairs.  The  others  per- 
ceived that  father  and  son  should  now  be  left  alone. 
Adrian  went  up  to  him,  and  said :  "I  can  no  longer  witness 
this  painful  sight,  so  Good-night,  Sir  Famish!  You  may 
cheat  yourself  into  the  belief  that  you've  made  a  meal, 
but  depend  upon  it  your  progeny — and  it  threatens  to  be 
numerous — will  cry  aloud  and  rue  the  day.  Nature  never 
forgives !  A  lost  dinner  can  never  be  replaced !  Good- 
night, my  dear  boy.  And  here — oblige  me  by  taking  this," 
he  handed  Richard  the  enormous  envelope  containing 
what  he  had  written  that  evening.  "Credentials!"  he 
exclaimed  humorously,  slapping  Richard  on  the  shoulder. 
Ripton  heard  also  the  words  "propagator — species,"  but 
had  no  idea  of  their  import.  The  wise  youth  looked :  You 
see  we've  made  matters  all  right  for  you  here,  and  quitted 
the  room  on  that  unusual  gleam  of  earnestness. 

Richard  shook  his  hand,  and  Ripton's.  Then  Lady 
Blandish  said  her  good-night,  praising  Lucy,  and  promis- 
ing to  pray  for  their  mutual  happiness.  The  two  men 
who  knew  what  was  hanging  over  him,  spoke  together 
outside.  Ripton  was  for  getting  a  positive  assurance  that 
the  duel  would  not  be  fought,  but  Adrian  said:   "Time 


1 1 1      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

enough  to-morrow.  He's  safe  enough  while  he's  here. 
I'll  stop  it  to-morrow:"  ending  with  banter  of  Ripton  and 
allusions  to  his  adventures  with  Miss  Random,  which 
must,  Adrian  said,  have  led  him  into  many  affaire  of 
sort.  Certainly  Richard  was  there,  and  while  he  was 
there  he  must  be  safe.  So  thought  Ripton,  and  went  to 
his  bed.  .Mrs.  Doria  deliberated  likewise,  and  likewise 
thought  him  safe  while  he  was  there.  For  once  in  her 
life  she  thought  it  better  not  to  trust  to  her  instinct,  for 
fear  of  useless  disturbance  where  peace  should  be.  So  she 
said  not  a  syllable  of  it  to  her  brother.  She  only  looked 
more  deeply  into  Richard's  eyes,  as  she  kissed  him,  prais- 
ing Lucy.  "I  have  found  a  second  daughter  in  her,  dear. 
Oh !  may  you  both  be  happy  !" 

They  all  praised  Lucy,  now.  His  father  commenced  the 
moment  they  were  alone.  "Poor  Helen  1  Your  wife  has 
been  a  great  comfort  to  her,  Richard.  I  think  Helen  must 
have  sunk  without  her.  So  lovely  a  young  person,  possess- 
ing mental  faculty,  and  a  conscience  for  her  duties,  I  have 
never  before  met." 

He  wished  to  gratify  his  son  by  these  eulogies  of  Lucy, 
•and  some  hours  back  he  would  have  succeeded.  Now  it 
had  the  contrary  effect. 

"You  compliment  me  on  my  choice,  sir?" 

Richard  spoke  sedately,  but  the  irony  was  perceptible, 
and  he  could  speak  no  other  way,  his  bitterness  was  so 
intense. 

"I  think  you  very  fortunate,"  said  his  father. 

Sensitive  to  tone  and  manner  as  he  was,  his  ebullition 
of  paternal  feeling  was  frozen.  Richard  did  not  approach 
him.  Ho  leaned  against  the  chimney-piece,  glancing  at 
the  floor,  and  lifting  his  eyes  only  when  he  spoke.  For- 
tunate! very  fortunate!  As  he  revolved  his  later  history, 
and  remembered  how  clearly  he  had  seen  that  his  father 
must  love  Lucy  if  he  but  knew  her,  and  remembered  his 
efforts  to  persuade  her  to  come  with  him,  a  sting  of 
miserable  rage  blackened  his  brain.  But  could  he  blame 
that  gentle  soul?  Whom  could  he  blame?  Himself?  Not 
utterly.  His  father?  Yes,  and  no.  The  blame  was  here, 
the  blame  was  there:  it  was  everywhere  and  nowhere, 
and  the  young  man  cast  it  on  the  Fates,  and  lookea 
angrily  at  heaven,  and  grew  reckless. 


THE  LAST   SCENE  445 

"Richard,"  said  his  father,  coming  close  to  him,  "It  is 
late  to-night.  I  do  not  wish  Lucy  to  remain  in  expectation 
longer,  or  I  should  have  explained  myself  to  you  thor- 
oughly, and  I  think — or  at  least  hope — you  would  have 
justified  me.  I  had  cause  to  believe  that  you  had  not 
only  violated  my  confidence,  but'  grossly  deceived  me.  It 
was  not  so,  I  now  know.  I  was  mistaken.  Much  of  our 
misunderstanding  has  resulted  from  that  mistake.  But 
you  were  married — a  boy :  you  knew  nothing  of  the  world, 
little  of  yourself.  To  save  you  in  after-life — for  there  is 
a  period  when  mature  men  and  women  who  have  married 
young  are  more  impelled  to  temptation  than  in  youth, — 
though  not  so  exposed  to  it, — to  save  you,  I  say,  I  decreed 
that  you  should  experience  self-denial  and  learn  something 
of  your  fellows  of  both  sexes,  before  settling  into  a  state 
that  must  have  been  otherwise  precarious,  however  ex- 
cellent the  woman  who  is  your  mate.  My  System  with 
you  would  have  been  otherwise  imperfect,  and  you  would 
have  felt  the  effects  of  it.  It  is  over  now.  You  are  a 
man.  The  dangers  to  which  your  nature  was  open  are, 
I  trust,  at  an  end.  I  wish  you  to  be  happy,  and  I  give  you 
both  my  blessing,  and  pray  God  to  conduct  and  strengthen 
you  both." 

Sir  Austin's  mind  was  unconscious  of  not  having 
spoken  devoutly.  True  or  not,  his  words  were  idle  to  his 
son:  his  talk  of  dangers  over,  and  happiness,  mockery. 

Richard  coldly  took  his  father's  extended  hand. 

"We  will  go  to  her,"  said  the  baronet.  "I  will  leave  you 
at  her  door." 

Not  moving:  looking  fixedly  at  his  father  with  a  hard 
face  on  which  the  colour  rushed,  Richard  said:  "A  hus- 
band who  has  been  unfaithful  to  his  wife  may  go  to  her 
there,  sir?" 

It  was  horrible,  it  was  cruel:  Richard  knew  that.  He 
wanted  no  advice  on  such  a  matter,  having  fully  resolved 
what  to  do.  Yesterday  he  would  have  listened  to  his 
father,  and  blamed  himself  alone,  and  done  what  was  to 
be  done  humbly  before  God  and  her:  now  in  the  reckless- 
ness of  his  misery  he  had  as  little  pity  for  any  other  soul 
as  for  his  own.  Sir  Austin's  brows  were  deep  drawn 
down. 

"What  did  you  say,  Richard?" 


HO      THE  OKDKAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

Clearly  his  intelligence  had  taken  it,  but  this — the 
worst  he  could  hear — this  that  he  had  dreaded  once  and 
doubted,  and  smoothed  over,  and  cast  aside — could  it  be? 

Richard  said:  i  told  you  all  but  the  very  words  when 
we  last  parted.  What  else  do  you  think  would  have  kept 
me  from  herf" 

Angered  at  his  callous  aspect,  his  father  cried:  "What 
brings  you  to  her  now?" 

"That  will  be  between  us  two,"  was  the  reply. 

Sir  Austin  fell  into  bis  chair.  Meditation  was  impossi- 
ble. He  spoke  from  a  wrathful  heart:  "You  will  not  dare 
to  take  her  without" 

"No,  sir,"  Richard  interrupted  him,  "I  shall  not. 
Have  no  fear." 

"Then  you  did  not  love  your  wife?" 

"Did  I  not?"  A  smile  passed  faintly  over  Richard's 
face. 

"Did  you  care  so  much  for  this — this  other  person?" 

"So  much  ?  If  you  ask  me  whether  I  had  affection  for 
her,  I  can  say  I  had  none." 

O  base  human  nature!  Then  how?  then  why?  A  thou- 
sand questions  rose  in  the  baronet's  mind.  Bessy  Berry 
could  have  answered  them  every  one. 

"Poor  child  !  poor  child  !"  he  apostrophized  Lucy,  pacing 
the  room.  Thinking  of  her,  knowing  her  deep  love  for  his 
son — her  true  forgiving  heart — it  seemed  she  should  be 
spared  tbis  misery. 

He  proposed  to  Richard  to  spare  her.  Vast  is  the  dis- 
tinction between  women  and  men  in  this  one  sin,  he  said, 
and  supported  it  with  physical  and  moral  citations.  His 
argument  carried  him  so  far,  that  to  hear  bim  one  would 
have  imagined  be  thought  the  sin  in  men  small  indeed. 
His  words  were  idle. 

"She  must  know  it,"  said  Richard,  sternly.  "I  will  go 
to  her  now,  sir,  if  you  please." 

Sir  Austin  detained  him,  expostulated,  contradicted 
himself,  confounded  his  principles,  made  nonsense  of  all 
bis  theories.  He  could  not  induce  his  son  to  waver  in 
his  resolve.  Ultimately,  their  good-night  being  inter- 
changed, he  understood  that  the  happiness  of  Raynham 
depended  on  Lucy's  mercy.  He  had  no  fears  of  her  sweet 
heart,  but  it  was  a  strange  thing  to  have  come  to.     On 


THE  LAST   SCENE  447 

■which  should  the  accusation  fall — on  science,  or  on  human 
nature  ? 

He  remained  in  the  library  pondering  over  the  question, 
at  times  breathing  contempt  for  his  son,  and  again  seized 
with  unwonted  suspicion  of  his  own  wisdom:  troubled, 
much  to  be  pitied,  even  if  he  deserved  that  blow  from  his 
son  which  had  plunged  him  into  wretchedness.    

Richard  went  straight  to  Tom  Bakewell,  roused  the 
heavy  sleeper,  and  told  him  to  have  his  mare  saddled  and 
waiting  at  the  park  gates  East  within  an  hour.  Tom's 
/  nearest'  approach  to  a  hero  was  to  be  a  faithful  slave  to 
his  master,  and  in  doing  this  he  acted  to  his  conception 
of  that  high  and  glorious  character.  He  got  up  and  he- 
roically dashed  his  head  into  cold  water.  "She  shall  be 
ready,  sir,"  he  nodded. 

"Tom !  if  you  don't  see  me  back  here  at  Raynham,  your 
money  will  go  on  being  paid  to  you." 

"Rather  see  you  than  the  money,  Mr.  Richard,"  said 
Tom. 

"And  you  will  always  watch  and  see  no  harm  comes  to 
her,  Tom." 

"Mrs.  Richard,  sir?"  Tom  stared.  "God  bless  me,  Mr. 
Richard" 

"No  questions.     You'll  do  what  I  say." 

"Ay,  sir;  that  I  will.    Did'n  Isle  o'  Wight." 

The  very  name  of  the  Island  shocked  Richard's  blood, 
and  he  had  to  walk  up  and  down  before  he  could  knock  at 
Lucy's  door.  That  infamous  conspiracy  to  which  he  owed 
his  degradation  and  misery  scarce  left  him  the  feelings  of 
a  man  when  he  thought  of  it. 

The  soft  beloved  voice  responded  to  his  knock.  He 
opened  the  door,  and  stood  before  her.  Lucy  was  half-way 
toward  him.  In  the  moment  that  passed  ere  she  was  in 
his  arms,  he  had  time  to  observe  the  change  in  her.  He 
had  left  her  a  girl:  he  beheld  a  woman — a  blooming 
woman :  for  pale  at  first,  no  sooner  did  she  see  him  than 
the  colour  was  rich  and  deep  on  her  face  and  neck  and 
bosom  half  shown  through  the  loose  dressing-robe,  and 
the  sense  of  her  exceeding  beauty  made  his  heart  thump 
and  his  eyes  swim. 

"My  darling !"  each  cried,  and  they  clung  together,  and 
her  mouth  was  fastened  on  his. 


us      THE  oKDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

They  spoke  no  more.  His  soul  was  drowned  in  her  kiss. 
Supporting  her,  whose  strength  was  gone,  he,  almost  as 
weak  as  she,  hung  over  her,  and  clasped  her  closer,  closer, 
till  they  were  as  one  body,  and  in  the  oblivion  her  lips 
put  upon  him  he  was  free  to  the  bliss  of  her  embrace. 
Heaven  granted  him  that.  He  placed  her  in  a  chair  and 
knelt  at  her  feet  with  both  arms  around  her.  Her  bosom 
heaved;  her  eyes  never  quitted  him:  their  light  as  the 
light  on  a  rolling  wave.  This  young  creature,  commonly 
so  frank  and  straightforward,  was  broken  with  bashfulness 
in  her  husband's  arms — womanly  bashfulness  on  the  tor- 
rent of  womanly  love;  tenfold  more  seductive  than  the 
bashfulness  of  girlhood.  Terrible  tenfold  the  loss  of  her 
seemed  now,  as  distantly — far  on  the  horizon  of  memory — 
the  fatal  truth  returned  to  him. 

Lose  her?  lose  this?  He  looked  up  as  if  to  ask  God  to 
confirm  it. 

The  same  sweet  blue  eyes!  the  eyes  that  he  had  often 
seen  in  the  dying  glories  of  evening;  on  him  they  dwelt, 
shifting,  and  fluttering,  and  glittering,  but  constant:  the 
light'  of  them  as  the  light  on  a  rolling  wave. 

And  true  to  him!  true,  good,  glorious,  as  the  angels  of 
heaven!  And  his  she  was!  a  woman — his  wife!  The 
temptation  to  take  her,  and  be  dumb,  was  all  powerful : 
the  wish  to  die  against  her  bosom  so  strong  as  to  be  the 
prayer  of  his  vital  forces.  Again  he  strained  her  to  him, 
but  this  time  it  was  as  a  robber  grasps  priceless  treasure — 
with  exultation  and  defiance.  One  instant  of  this.  Lucy, 
whose  pure  tenderness  had  now  surmounted  the  first  wild 
passion  of  their  meeting,  bent  back  her  head  from  her 
surrendered  body,  and  said  almost  voicelessly,  her  under- 
lids  wistfully  quivering:  "Come  and  see  him — baby;"  and 
then  in  great  hope  of  the  happiness  she  was  going  to  give 
her  husband,  and  share  with  him,  and  in  tremour  and 
doubt  of  what  his  feelings  would  be,  she  blushed,  and  her 
brows  worked :  she  tried  to  throw  off  the  strangeness  of 
a  year  of  separation,  misunderstanding,  and  uncertainty. 

"Darling!  come  and  see  him.  He  is  here."  She  spoke 
more  clearly,   though   no  louder. 

Richard  had  released  her,  and  she  took  his  hand,  and  he 
suffered  himself  to  be  led  to  the  other  side  of  the  bed.  His 
heart    began    rapidly   throbbing    at    the    sight   of    a    little 


THE  LAST   SCENE  44$ 

rosy-curtained  cot  covered  with  lace  like  milky  summer 
cloud. 

It  seemed  to  him  he  would  lose  his  manhood  if  he 
looked  on  that  child's  face. 

"Stop!"  he  cried  suddenly. 

Lucy  turned  first  to  him,  and  then  to  her  infant,  fearing 
it  should  have  been  disturbed. 

"Lucy,  come  back." 

"What  is  it,  darling?"  said  she,  in  alarm  at  his  voice 
and  the  grip  he  had  unwittingly  given  her  hand. 

O  God!  what  an  Ordeal  was  this!  that  to-morrow  he 
must  face  death,  perhaps  die  and  be  torn  from  his  darling 
— his  wife  and  his  child ;  and  that  ere  he  went  forth, 
ere  he  could  dare  to  see  his  child  and  lean  his  head  re- 
proachfully on  his  young  wife's  breast — for  the  last  time, 
it  might  be — he  must  stab  her  to  the  heart,  shatter  the 
image  she  held  of  him. 

"Lucy!"  She  saw  him  wrenched  with  agony,  and  her 
own  face  took  the  whiteness  of  his — she  bending  forward 
to  him,  all  her  faculties  strung  to  hearing. 

He  held  her  two  hands  that  she  might  look  on  him  and 
not  spare  the  horrible  wounds  he  was  going  to  lay  open 
to  her  eyes. 

"Lucy.     Do  you  know  why  I  came  to  you  to-night?" 

She  moved  her  lips  repeating  his  words. 

"Lucy.    Have  you  guessed  why  I  did  not  come  before  ?" 

Her  head  shook  widened  eyes. 

"Lucy.  I  did  not  come  because  I  was  not  worthy  of 
my  wife !     Do  you  understand  ?" 

"Darling,"  she  faltered  plaintively,  and  hung  crouching 
under  him,  "what  have  I  done  to  make  you  angry  with 
me?" 

"O  beloved!"  cried  he,  the  tears  bursting  out  of  his 
eyes.  "O  beloved !"  was  all  he  could  say,  kissing  her  hands 
passionately. 

She  waited,  reassured,  but  in  terror. 

"Lucy.  I  stayed  away  from  you — I  could  not  come  to 
you,  because  ...  I  dared  not  come  to  you,  my  wife,  my 
beloved !  I  could  not  come  because  I  was  a  coward :  be- 
cause— hear  me — this  was  the  reason :  I  have  broken  my 
marriage  oath." 

Again  her  lips  moved.     She  caught  at  a  dim  fleshless 


450      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 


meaning  in  them.  "But  you  love  me?  Richard!  My  hus- 
band !  you  love  me  ?" 

"Yes.  I  have  never  loved,  I  never  shall  love,  woman 
but  you." 

"Darling  1     Kiss  me." 

"Have  you  understood  what  I  have  told  you  ?" 

"Kiss  me,"  she  said. 

He  did  not  join  lips.  "I  have  come  to  you  to-night  to 
ask  your  forgiveness." 

Her  answer  was:  "Kiss  me." 

"Can  you  forgive  a  man  so  base?" 

"But  you  love  me,  Richard?" 

"Yes:  that  I  can  say  before  God.  I  love  you,  and  I 
have  betrayed  you,  and  am  unworthy  of  you — not  worthy 
to  touch  your  hand,  to  kneel  at  your  feet,  to  breathe  the 
same  air  with  you." 

Her  eyes  shone  brilliantly.  "Yrou  love  me!  you  love 
me,  darling!"  And  as  one  who  has  sailed  through  dark 
fears  into  daylight,  she  said:  "My  husband!  my  darling! 
you  will  never  leave  me?  We  never  shall  be  parted 
again?" 

He  drew  his  breath  painfully.  To  smooth  her  face 
growing  rigid  with  fresh  fears  of  his  silence,  he  met  her 
mouth.  That  kiss  in  which  she  spoke  what  her  soul  had 
to  say,  calmed  her,  and  she  smiled  happily  from  it,  and  in 
her  manner  reminded  him  of  his  first  vision  of  her  on  the 
sinnmer  morning  in  the  field  of  the  meadow-sweet.  He 
held  her  to  him,  and  thought  then  of  a  holier  picture:  of 
Mother  and  Child :  of  the  sweet  wonders  of  the  life  she 
had  made  real  to  him. 

Had  he  not  absolved  his  conscience?  At  least  the  pangs 
to  come  made  him  think  so.  He  now  followed  her  leading 
hand.  Lucy  whispered:  "You  mustn't  disturb  him — 
must  n't  touch  him,  dear!"  and  with  dainty  fingers  drew 
off  the  covering  to  the  little  shoulder.  One  arm  of  the 
child  was  out  along  the  pillow;  the  small  hand  open.  His 
baby-mouth  was  pouted  full ;  the  dark  lashes  of  his  eyes 
seemed  to  lie  on  his  plump  cheeks.  Richard  stooped  lower 
down  to  him,  hungering  for  some  movement  as  a  sign  that 
he  lived.  Lucy  whispered.  "He  sleeps  like  you,  Richard 
— one  arm  under  his  head."  Great  wonder,  and  the  stir 
of  a  grasping  tenderness   was   in   Richard.     He  breathed 


THE  LAST   SCENE  451 

quick  and  soft,  bending  lower,  till  Lucy's  curls,  as  she 
nestled  and  bent  with  him,  rolled  on  the  crimson  quilt 
of  Vne  cot.  A  smile  went  up  the  plump  cheeks :  forthwith 
the  bud  of  a  mouth  was  in  rapid  motion.  The  young 
mother  whispered,  blushing:  "He's  dreaming  of  me,"  and 
the  simple  words  did  more  than  Kichard's  eyes  to  make 
him  see  what  was.  Then  Lucy  began  to  hum  and  buzz 
sweet  baby-language,  and  some  of  the  tiny  fingers  stirred, 
and  he  made  as  if  to  change  his  cosy  position,  but  recon- 
sidered, and  deferred  it,  with  a  peaceful  little  sigh.  Lucy 
whispered:  "He  is  such  a  big  fellow.  Oh!  when  you  see 
him  awake  he  is  so  like  you,  Eichard." 

He  did  not  hear  her  immediately:  it'  seemed  a  bit  of 
heaven  dropped  there  in  his  likeness :  the  more  human  the 
fact  of  the  child  grew  the  more  heavenly  it  seemed.  His 
son!  his  child!  should  he  ever  see  him  awake?  At  the 
thought,  he  took  the  words  that  had  been  spoken,  and 
started  from  the  dream  he  had  been  in.  "Will  he  wake 
?oon,  Lucy?" 

*'0h  no!  not  yet,  dear:  not  for  hours.  I  would  have 
kept  him  awake  for  you,  but  he  was  so  sleepy." 

Eichard  stood  back  from  the  cot.  He  thought  that  if 
he  saw  the  eyes  of  his  boy,  and  had  him  once  on  his  heart, 
he  never  should  have  force  to  leave  him.  Then  he  looked 
down  on  him,  again  struggled  to  tear  himself  away.  Two 
natures  warred  in  his  bosom,  or  it  may  have  been  the 
Magian  Conflict  still  going  on.  He  had  come  to  see  his 
child  once  and  to  make  peace  with  his  wife  before  it 
should  be  too  late.  Might  he  not  stop  with  them?  Might 
he  not  relinquish  that  devilish  pledge?  Was  not  divine 
happiness  here  offered  to  him? — If  foolish  Eipton  had  not 
delayed  to  tell  him  of  his  interview  with  Mountfalcon  all 
might  have  been  well.  But  pride  said  it  was  impossible. 
A"  4  then  injury  spoke.  For  why  was  he  thus  base  and 
spotted  to  the  darling  of  his  love  ?  A  mad  pleasure  in  the 
prospect  of  wreaking  vengeance  on  the  villain  who  had 
laid  the  trap  for  him,  once  more  blackened  his  brain.  If 
he  would  stay  he  could  not.  So  he  resolved,  throwing  the 
burden  on  Fate.    The  struggle  was  over,  but  oh,  the  pain ! 

Lucy  beheld  the  tears  streaming  hot  from  his  face  on 
the  child's  cot.  She  marvelled  at  such  excess  of  emotion. 
But  when  his  chest  heaved,  and  the  extremity  of  mortal 


152       THE  ORDEAL  OE  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

anguish  appeared  to  have  seized  him,  her  heart  sank,  and 
she  tried  to  get  him  in  her  arms.  He  turned  away  from 
her  and  went  to  the  window.  A  half-moon  was  over  the 
lake. 

"Look !"  he  said,  "do  you  remember  our  rowing  there 
one  night,  and  we  saw  the  shadow  of  the  cypress?  I  wish 
I  could  have  come  early  to-night  that  we  might  have  had 
another  row,  and  I  have  heard  you  sing  there!" 

"Darling!"  said  she,  "will  it  make  you  happier  if  I  go 
with  you  now?    I  will." 

"No,  Lucy.     Lucy,  you  are  brave!" 

"Oh,  no!  that  I'm  not.  I  thought  so  once.  I  know  I 
am  not  now." 

"Yes!  to  have  lived — the  child  on  your  heart — and 
never  to  have  uttered  a  complaint! — you  are  brave.  O  my 
Lucy!  my  wife!  you  that  have  made  me  man!  I  called 
you  a  coward.  I  remember  it.  I  was  the  coward — /  the 
wretched  vain  fool!  Darling!  I  am  going  to  leave  you 
now.  You  are  brave,  and  you  will  bear  it.  Listen :  in 
two  days,  or  three,  I  may  be  back — back  for  good,  if  you 
will  accept  me.  Promise  me  to  go  to  bed  quietly.  Kiss 
the  child  for  me,  and  tell  him  his  father  has  seen  him.  He 
will  learn  to  speak  soon.     Will  he  soon  speak,  Lucy?" 

Dreadful  suspicion  kept  her  speechless ;  she  could  only 
clutch  one  arm  of  his  with  both  her  hands. 

"Going?"  she  presently  gasped. 

"For  two  or  three  days.     No  more — I  hope." 

"To-night?" 

"Yes.     Now." 

"Going  now?  my  husband !"  her  faculties  abandoned  her. 

"You  will  be  brave,  my  Lucy !" 

"Richard!  my  darling  husband!  Going?  What  is  it 
takes  you  from  me?"  But  questioning  no  further,  she  fell 
on  her  knees,  and  cried  piteously  to  him  to  stay — not  to 
leave  them.  Then  she  dragged  him  to  the  little  sleeper, 
and  urged  him  to  pray  by  his  side,  and  he  did,  but  rose 
abruptly  from  his  prayer  when  he  had  muttered  a  few 
broken  words — she  praying  on  with  tight-strung  nerves,  in 
the  faith  that  what  she  said  to  the  interceding  Mother 
above  would  be  stronger  than  human  hands  on  him.  Nor 
could  he  go  while  she  knelt  there. 

And  he  wavered.     He  had  not  reckoned  on  her  terrible 


THE  LAST   SCENE  453 

suffering.  She  came  to  him,  quiet.  "I  knew  you  would 
remain."  And  taking  his  hand,  innocently  fondling  it: 
"Am  I  so  changed  from  her  he  loved  ?  You  will  not  leave 
me,  dear?"  But'  dread  returned,  and  the  words  quavered 
as  she  spoke  them. 

He  was  almost  vanquished  by  the  loveliness  of  her 
womanhood.  She  drew  his  hand  to  her  heart,  and  strained 
it  there  under  one  breast.  "Come:  lie  on  my  heart,"  she 
murmured  with  a  smile  of  holy  sweetness. 

He  wavered  more,  and  drooped  to  her,  but  summoning 
the  powers  of  hell,  kissed  her  suddenly,  cried  the  words  of 
parting,  and  hurried  to  the  door.  It  was  over  in  an  in- 
stant. She  cried  out  his  name,  clinging  to  him  wildly, 
and  was  adjured  to  be  brave,  for  he  would  be  dishonoured 
if  he  did  not  go.     Then  she  was  shaken  off. 

Mrs.  Berry  was  aroused  by  an  unusual  prolonged  wailing 
of  the  child,  which  showed  that  no  one  was  comforting  it, 
and  failing  to  get  any  answer  to  her  applications  for 
admittance,  she  made  bold  to  enter.  There  she  saw  Lucy, 
the  child  in  her  lap,  sitting  on  the  floor  senseless: — she 
had  taken  it  from  its  sleep  and  tried  to  follow  her  hus- 
band with  it  as  her  strongest  appeal  to  him,  and  had 
fainted. 

"Oh  my!  oh  my!"  Mrs.  Berry  moaned,  "and  I  just  now 
thinkin'  they  was  so  happy!" 

Warming  and  caressing  the  poor  infant,  she  managed 
by  degrees  to  revive  Lucy,  and  heard  what  had  brought 
her  to  that  situation. 

''Go  to  his  father,"  said  Mrs.  Berry.  "Ta-te-tiddle-te- 
heighty-0 !  Go,  my  love,  and  every  horse  in  Raynham 
shall  be  out  after  'm.  This  is  what  men  brings  us  to! 
Heighty-oighty-iddlety-Ah !  Or  you  take  blessed  baby, 
and  I'll  go." 

The  baronet  himself  knocked  at  the  door.  "What  is 
this?"  he  said.     "I  heard  a  noise  and  a  step  descend." 

"It's  Mr.  Richard  have  gone,  Sir  Austin!  have  gone 
from  his  wife  and  babe!  Rum-te-um-te-iddledy — Oh,  my 
goodness !  what  sorrow's  come  on  us !"  and  Mrs.  Berry 
wept,  and  sang  to  baby,  and  baby  cried  vehemently,  and 
Lucy,  sobbing,  took  him  and  danced  him  and  sang  to  him 
with  drawn  lips  and  tears  dropping  over  him.  And  if  the 
Scientific  Humanist  to  the  day  of  his  death  forgets  the 


4.V1      THE  ORDKAI.  <>F  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

sight  of  those  two  poor  true  women  jigging  on  their 
wretched  hearts  to  calm  the  child,  he  must  have  very  little 
of  the  human  in  him. 

There  was  no  more  sleep  for  Raynham  that  night. 


CHAPTER   XLV 
LADY   BLANDISH   TO   AUSTIN    WENTWORTH 

"His  ordeal  is  over.  I  have  just  come  from  his  room 
and  seen  him  bear  the  worst  that  could  be.  Return  at  once 
— he  has  asked  for  you.  I  can  hardly  write  intelligibly, 
but  I  will  tell  you  what  we  know. 

"Two  days  after  the  dreadful  night  when  he  left  us,  his 
father  heard  from  Ralph  Morton.  Richard  had  fought  a 
duel  in  France  with  Lord  Mountfalcon,  and  was  lying 
wounded  at  a  hamlet  on  the  coast.  His  father  started 
immediately  with  his  poor  wife,  and  I  followed  in  com- 
pany with  his  aunt  and  his  child.  The  wound  was  not 
dangerous.  He  was  shot  in  the  side  somewhere,  but  the 
ball  injured  no  vital  part.  We  thought  all  would  be  well. 
Oh!  how  sick  I  am  of  theories,  and  Systems,  and  the  pre- 
tensions of  men!  There  was  his  son  lying  all  but  dead, 
and  the  man  was  still  unconvinced  of  the  folly  he  had  been 
guilty  of.  I  could  hardly  bear  the  sight  of  his  composure. 
I  shall  hate  the  name  of  Science  till  the  day  I  die.  Give 
me  nothing  but  commonplace  unpretending  people! 

"They  were  at  a  wretched  French  cabaret,  smelling 
vilely,  where  we  still  remain,  and  the  people  try  as  much 
as  they  can  do  to  compensate  for  our  discomforts  by  their 
kindness.  The  French  poor  people  are  very  considerate 
where  they  see  suffering.  I  will  say  that  for  them.  The 
doctors  had  not  allowed  his  poor  Lucy  to  go  near  him. 
She  sat  outside  his  door,  and  none  of  us  dared  disturb 
her.  That  was  a  sight  for  Science.  His  father  and  my- 
self, and  Mrs.  Berry,  were  the  only  ones  permitted  to 
wait  on  him,  and  whenever  we  came  out,  there  she  sat. 
not  speaking  a  word — for  she  had  been  told  if  would 
endanger  his  life— but  she  looked  such  awful  eagerness. 


LADY  BLANDISH  TO  AUSTIN  WENTWORTH   455 

She  had  the  sort  of  eye  I  fancy  mad  persons  have.  I  was 
sure  her  reason  was  going.  We  did  everything  we  could 
think  of  to  comfort  her.  A  bed  was  made  up  for  her  and 
her  meals  were  brought  to  her  there.  Of  course  there  was 
no  getting  her  to  eat.  What  do  you  suppose  his  alarm 
was  fixed  on?  He  absolutely  said  to  me — but  I  have  not 
patience  to  repeat  his  words.  He  thought  her  to  blame 
for  not  commanding  herself  for  the  sake  of  her  maternal 
duties.  He  had  absolutely  an  idea  of  insisting  that  she 
should  make  an  effort  to  suckle  the  child.  I  shall  love  that 
Mrs.  Berry  to  the  end  of  my  days.  I  really  believe  she  has 
twice  the  sense  of  any  of  us — Science  and  all.  She  asked 
him  plainly  if  he  wished  to  poison  the  child,  and  then  he 
gave  way,  but  with  a  bad  grace. 

''Poor  man !  perhaps  I  am  hard  on  him.  I  remember 
that  you  said  Richard  had  done  wrong.  Yes;  well,  that 
may  be.  But  his  father  eclipsed  his  wrong  in  a  greater 
wrong — a  crime,  or  quite  as  bad ;  for  if  he  deceived  himself 
in  the  belief  that  he  was  acting  righteously  in  sparating 
husband  and  wife,  and  exposing  his  son  as  he  did,  I  can 
only  say  that  there  are  some  who  are  worse  than  people 
who  deliberately  commit  crimes.  No  doubt  Science  will 
benefit  by  it.  They  kill  little  animals  for  the  sake  of 
Science. 

"We  have  with  us  Doctor  Bairam,  and  a  French 
physician  from  Dieppe,  a  very  skilful  man.  It  was  he 
who  told  us  where  the  real  danger  lay.  We  thought  all 
would  be  well.  A  week  had  passed,  and  no  fever  super- 
vened. We  told  Richard  that  his  wife  was  coming  to 
him,  and  he  could  bear  to  hear  it.  I  went  to  her  and 
began  to  circumlocute,  thinking  she  listened — she  had  the 
same  eager  look.  When  I  told  her  she  might  go  in  with 
me  to  see  her  dear  husband,  her  features  did  not  change. 
M.  Despres,  who  held  her  pulse  at  the  time,  told  me,  in 
a  whisper,  it  was  cerebral  fever — brain  fever  coming  on. 
We  have  talked  of  her  since.  I  noticed  that  though  she 
did  not  seem  to  understand  me,  her  bosom  heaved,  and 
she  appeared  to  be  trying  to  repress  it,  and  choke  some- 
thing. I  am  sure  now,  from  what  I  know  of  her  char- 
acter, that  she — even  in  the  approaches  of  delirium — was 
preventing  herself  from  crying  out.  Her  last  hold  of 
reason  was  a  thought  for  Richard.    It  was  against  a  crea- 


456      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

ture  like  this  that  we  plotted!  I  have  the  comfort  of 
knowing  that  I  did  my  share  in  helping  to  destroy  her. 
Had  she  seen  her  husband  a  day  or  two  before — but  no! 
there  was  a  new  System  to  interdict  that!  Or  had  she 
not  so  violently  controlled  her  nature  as  she  did,  I  believe 
she  might   have  been  saved. 

"He  said  once  of  a  man,  that  his  conscience  was  a  cox- 
comb.   Will  you  believe  that  when  he  saw  his  son's  wife — 
poor  victim!  lying  delirious,  he  could  not  even  then  see  his 
error.    You  said  he  wished  to  take  Providence  out  of  God's 
hands.     His  mad  self-deceit  would  not  leave  him.     I  am 
positive,  that  while  he  was  standing  over  her,  he  was  blam- 
ing her  for  not  having  considered  the  child.     Indeed  he 
made    a    remark    to    me   that    it    was    unfortunate — 'dis- 
astrous,' I  think  he  said — that  the  child  should  have  to  be 
fed  by  hand.     I  dare  say  it  is.     All  I  pray  is  that  this 
young  child  may  be  saved  from  him.     I  cannot  bear  to 
see  him  look  on   it.     He  does  not  spare  himself  bodily 
fatigue — but  what  is  that?  that  is  the  vulgarest  form  of 
love.     I  know  what  you   will  say.     You  will  say  I  have 
lost  all  charity,  and  I  have.     But  I  should  not  feel  so, 
Austin,  if  I  could  be  quite  sure  that  he  is  an  altered  man 
even  now  the  blow  has  struck  him.     He  is  reserved  and 
simple  in  his  speech,  and  his  grief  is  evident,  but  I  have 
doubts.     He  heard  her  while  she  was  senseless  call  him 
cruel  and  harsh,  and  cry  that  she  had  suffered,  and  I  saw 
then  his  mouth  contract  as  if  he  had  been  touched.     Per- 
haps, when  he  thinks,  his  mind  will  be  clearer,  but  what 
he  has  done  cannot  be  undone.    I  do  not  imagine  he  will 
abuse  women  any  more.     The  doctor  called  her  a  'forte  et 
belle  jeune  femme:'  and  he  said  she  was  as  noble  a  soul  as 
ever  God  moulded  clay  upon.    A  noble  soul  'forte  et  belle !' 
She  lies  upstairs.     If  he  can  look  on  her  and  not  see  his 
sin,  I  almost  fear  God  will  never  enlighten  him. 

"She  died  five  days  after  she  had  been  removed.  The 
shock  had  utterly  deranged  her.  I  was  with  her.  She  died 
very  quietly,  breathing  her  last  breath  without  pain — ■ 
asking  for  no  one — a  death  I  should  like  to  die. 

"Her  cries  at  one  time  were  dr  adfully  loud.  She 
screamed  that  she  was  'drowning  in  fire,'  and  that  her 
husband  would  not  come  to  her  to  save  her.  We  deadened 
the  sound  as  much  as  we  could,  but  it  was  impossible  to 


LADY  BLANDISH  TO  AUSTIN  WENTWORTH  457 

prevent  Richard  from  hearing.  He  knew  her  voice,  and 
it  produced  an  effect  like  fever  on  him.  Whenever  she 
called  he  answered.  You  could  not  hear  them  without 
weeping.  Mrs.  Berry  sat  with  her,  and  I  sat  with  him, 
and  his  father  moved  from  one  to  the  other. 

"But  the  trial  for  us  came  when  she  was  gone.  How  to 
communicate  it  to  Richard — or  whether  to  do  so  at  all! 
His  father  consulted  with  us.  We  were  quite  decided  that 
it  would  be  madness  to  breathe  it  while  he  was  in  that 
state.  I  can  admit  now — as  things  have  turned  out — we 
were  wrong.  His  father  left  us — I  believe  he  spent  the 
time  in  prayer — and  then  leaning  on  me,  he  went  to  Rich- 
ard, and  said  in  so  many  words,  that  his  Lucy  was  no 
more.  I  thought  it  must  kill  him.  He  listened,  and 
smiled.  I  never  saw  a  smile  so  sweet  and  so  sad.  He 
said  he  had  seen  her  die,  as  if  he  had  passed  through  his 
suffering  a  long  time  ago.  He  shut  his  eyes.  I  could  see 
by  the  motion  of  his  eyeballs  up  that  he  was  straining  his 
sight  to  some  inner  heaven. — I  cannot  go  on. 

"I  think  Richard  is  safe.  Had  we  postponed  the  tidings, 
till  he  came  to  his  clear  senses,  it  must  have  killed  him. 
His  father  was  right  for  once,  then.  But  if  he  has  saved 
his  son's  body,  he  has  given  the  death-blow  to  his  heart. 
Richard  will  never  be  what  he  promised. 

"A  letter  found  on  his  clothes  tells  us  the  origin  of  the 
quarrel.  I  have  had  an  interview  with  Lord  M.  this  morn- 
ing. I  cannot  say  I  think  him  exactly  to  blame:  Richard 
forced  him  to  fight.  At  least  I  do  not  select  him  the  fore- 
most for  blame.  He  was  deeply  and  sincerely  affected  by 
the  calamity  he  has  caused.  Alas !  he  was  only  an  instru- 
ment. Your  poor  aunt  is  utterly  prostrate  and  talks 
strange  things  of  her  daughter's  death.  She  is  only  happy 
in  drudging.  Dr.  Bairam  says  we  must  under  any  circum- 
stances keep  her  employed.  Whilst  she  is  doing  some- 
thing, she  can  chat  freely,  but  the  moment  her  hands  are 
not  occupied  she  gives  me  an  idea  that  she  is  going  into 
a  fit. 

"We  expect  the  dear  child's  uncle  to-day.  Mr.  Thomp- 
son is  here.  I  have  taken  him  upstairs  to  look  at  her. 
That  poor  young  man  has  a  true  heart. 

"Come  at  once.  You  will  not  be  in  time  to  see  her.  She 
will  lie  at  Raynham.    If  you  could  you  would  see  an  angel. 


L58      THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

He  sits  by  her  side  for  hours.     I  can  give  you  no  deserip- 
tion  of  her  beauty. 

"You  will  not  delay,  T  know,  dear  Austin,  and  I  want 
you,  for  your  presence  will  make  me  more  cnaritablc  than 
1  find  it  possible  to  be.  Have  you  noticed  the  expression 
in  the  eyes  of  blind  men?  That  is  just  how  Richard  looks, 
as  he  lies  there  silent  in  his  bed — striving  to  image  her  on 
his  brain." 


THE   ^ND 


THE  MODERN 
STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 

Each  volume  edited  with  an  introduction  by  a  leading 
American  authority 


This  series  is  composed  of  such  works  as  are  conspicuous  in  the 
province  of  literature  for  their  enduring  influence.  Every  volume 
is  recognized  as  essential  to  a  liberal  education  and  will  tend  to  in- 
fuse a  love  for  true  literature  and  an  appreciation  of  the  qualities 
which  cause  it  to  endure. 


A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD  AND 
MERRIMAC  RIVERS 

By  Henry  David  Thoreau 

With  an  Introduction  by 
ODELL  SHEPARD 

Professor  of  English  at  Trinity  College 

"...  Here  was  a  man  who  stood  with  his  head  in  the  clouds, 
perhaps,  but  with  his  feet  firmly  planted  on  rubble  and  grit.  He 
was  true  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home.  Thoreau's 
eminently  practical  thought  was  really  concerned  in  the  last  anal- 
ysis with  definite  human  problems.  The  major  question  how  to  live 
was  at  the  end  of  all  his  vistas." 

EMERSON'S  ESSAYS 

Selected  and  edited,  with  an  Introduction,  by 
ARTHUR  HOBSON  QUINN 

Professor  of  English  and  Dean  of  the  College  University  of 
Pennsylvania 

"  Among  the  shifting  values  in  our  literary  history,  Emerson  stands 
secure.  As  a  people  we  are  rather  prone  to  underestimate  our  native 
writers  in  relation  to  English  and  continental  authors,  but  even 
among  those  who  have  been  content  to  treat  our  literature  as  a  by- 
product of  British  letters,  Emerson's  significance  has  become  only 
more  apparent  with  time." 


THE  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 

THE  ESSAYS  OF 
ADDISON  AND  STEELE 

Selected  and  edited  by 
WILL  D.  HOWE 

Professor  of  English  at  Indiana  University 

With  the  writings  of  these  two  remarkable  essayists  modern  prose 
began.  It  is  not  merely  that  their  style  even  to-day,  after  two  cen- 
turies, commands  attention,  it  is  equally  noteworthy  that  these 
men  were  among  the  first  to  show  the  possibilities  of  our  language 
in  developing  a  reading  public. 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  AND 
JONATHAN  EDWARDS 

With  an  Introduction  by 
CARL  VAX  DOREN 

Franklin  and  Edwards  often  sharply  contrasted  in  thought  are, 
however,  in  the  main,  complementary  to  each  other.  In  religion, 
Franklin  was  the  utilitarian,  Edwards  the  mystic.  Franklin  was 
more  interested  in  practical  morality  than  in  revelation;  Edwards 
sought  a  spiritual  exaltation  in  religious  ecstasy.  In  science  Frank- 
lin was  the  practical  experimenter,  Edwards  the  detached  observer, 
the  theoretical  investigator  of  causes. 

THE 
HEART  OF  MIDLOTHIAN 

By  Sir  Walter  Scott 

With  an  Introduction  by 
WILLIAM  P.  TRENT 

Professor  of  English  at  Columbia  University 

Universally  admitted  one  of  the  world's  greatest  story-tellers, 
Scott  himself  considered  "The  Heart  of  Midlothian"  his  master- 
piece, and  it  has  been  accepted  as  such  by  most  of  his  admirers. 


TEE  MODERN  STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 

THE   ORDEAL  OF 
RICHARD  FEVEREL 

By  George  Meredith 

With  an  Introduction  by 
FRANK  W.  CHANDLER 

Professor  of  English  at  the  University  of  Cincinnati 

"The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel,"  published  in  1859,  was  Mere- 
dith's first  modern  novel  and  probably  his  best.  Certainly  it  was, 
and  has  remained,  the  most  generally  popular  of  all  this  author's 
books  and  among  the  works  of  its  type  it  stands  pre-eminent.  The 
story  embodies  in  the  most  beautiful  form  the  idea  that  in  life  the 
whole  truth  and  nothing  but  the  truth  is  best. 

MEREDITH'S 
ESSAY  ON  COMEDY 

With  an  Introduction,  Notes,  and  Biographical  Sketch  by 
LANE  COOPER 

Professor  of  English  at  Cornell  University 

"Good  comedies,"  Meredith  tells  us,  "are  such  rare  productions 
that,  notwithstanding  the  wealth  of  our  literature  in  the  comic 
element,  it  would  not  occupy  us  long  to  run  over  the  English  list." 

The  "Essay  on  Comedy"  is  in  a  peculiarly  intimate  way  the  ex- 
position of  Meredith's  attitude  toward  life  and  art.  It  helps  us  to 
understand  more  adequately  the  subtle  delicacies  of  his  novels. 

CRITICAL  ESSAYS  OF  THE 
NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Selected  and  edited,  with  an  Introduction,  by 
RAYMOND  M.  ALDEN 

Professor  of  English  at  Leland  Stanford  University 

The  essays  in  this  volume  include  those  of  Wordsworth,  Copleston, 
Jeffrey,  Scott,  Coleridge,  Lockhart,  Lamb,  Hazlitt,  Byron,  Shelley, 
Newman,  DeQuincey,  Macaulay,  Wilson,  and  Hunt. 


THE  MODERX  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 

ENGLISH  POETS  OF  THE 
EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

Selected  ;tnd  Edited  by 

ERNEST  BERNBAUM 

Professor  of  English  at  the  University  of  Illinois 

The  great  age  of  the  eighteenth  century  is,  more  than  any  other, 
perhaps,  mirrored  in  its  poetry,  and  this  anthology  reveals  its  man- 
ners and  ideals. 

While  the  text  of  the  various  poems  is  authentic,  it  is  not  bur- 
dened with  scholastic  editing  and  marginal  comment.  The  collee- 
tion  and  its  form  is  one  which  satisfies  in  an  unusual  way  the  in- 
terest of  the  general  reader  as  well  as  that  of  the  specialist. 

PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS 
By  John  Bunyan 

With  an  Introduction  and  Notes  by 
DR.  S.  M.  CROTHERS 

This  book  is  one  of  the  most  vivid  and  entertaining  in  the  English 
language,  one  that  has  been  read  more  than  any  other  in  our  lan- 
guage, except  the  Bible. 

PRIDE  AND  PREJUDICE 
By  Jane  Austen 

With  an  Introduction  by 
WILLIAM  DEAN  IIOWELLS 

To  have  this  masterpiece  of  realistic  literature  introduced  by  so 
eminent  a  critic  as  William  Dean  Howells  is,  in  itself,  an  event  in 
the  literary  world.  We  cannot  better  comment  upon  the  edition 
than  by  quoting  from  Mr.  Ilowells's  introduction: 

He  says:  "When  I  came  to  read  the  book  the  tenth  or  fifteenth 
time  for  the  purposes  of  this  introduction,  I  found  it  as  fresh  as  when 
I  read  it  first  in  1889,  after  long  shying  off  from  it." 


TEE  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY  LETTERS 

Selected  and  edited  by 
BYRON  JOHNSON  REES 

Professor  of  English  at  Williams  College 

Contains  letters  from  Blake,  Wordsworth,  Smith,  Southey,  Lamb, 
Irving,  Keats,  Emerson,  Lincoln,  Thackeray,  Huxley,  Meredith, 
"Lewis  Carroll,"  Phillips  Brooks,  Sidney  Lanier,  and  Stevenson. 

PAST  AND  PRESENT 

By  Thomas  Carlyle 

With  an  Introduction  by 
EDWTN  W.  MIMS 

Professor  of  English  at  Vanderbilt  University 

"Past  and  Present,"  written  in  1843,  when  the  industrial  revolu- 
tions had  just  taken  place  in  England  and  when  democracy  and 
freedom  were  the  watchwords  of  liberals  and  progressives,  reads  like 
a  contemporary  volume  on  industrial  and  social  problems. 

BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON 

Abridged  and  edited,  with  an  Introduction  and  Notes,  by 
CHARLES  G.  OSGOOD 

Professor  of  English  at  Princeton  University 

Seldom  has  an  abridgment  been  made  with  as  great  skill  in  omit- 
ting nothing  vital  and  keeping  proper  proportions  as  this  edition  by 
Professor  Osgood. 

AMERICAN  BALLADS  AND  SONGS 

Collected  and  edited  by 
LOUISE  POUND 

Professor  of  English,  University  of  Nebraska 

An  anthology  intended  to  present  to  lovers  of  traditional  songs  such 
selections  as  illustrate  the  main  classics  and  types  having  currency  in 
English-speaking  North  America.  It  includes  a  number  of  imported 
ballads  and  songs,  Western  songs,  dialogue  and  nursery  songs,  etc. 


THE  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 


BACON'S  ESSAYS 

Selected,  with  an  Introduction  and  Notes,  by 
MARY  AUGUSTA  SCOTT 

Late  Professor  of  English  Literature  at  Smith  College 

These  essays,  the  distilled  wisdom  of  a  great  observer  upon  the 
affairs  of  common  life,  are  of  endless  interest  and  profit.  The  more 
one  reads  them  the  more  remarkable  seem  their  compactness  and 
their  vitality. 


ADAM  BEDE 

By  George  Eliot 

With  an  Introduction  by 
LAURA  J.  WYLIE 

Professor  of  English  at  Vassar  College 

With  the  publication  of  "Adam  Bede"  in  1859,  it  was  evident 
both  to  England  and  America  that  a  great  novelist  had  appeared. 
"Adam  Bede"  is  the  most  natural  of  George  Eliot's  books,  simple 
in  problem,  direct  in  action,  with  the  freshness  and  strength  of  the 
Derbyshire  landscape  and  character  and  speech  in  its  pages. 


THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK 
By  Robert  Browning 

With  an  Introduction  by 
FREDERICK  MORGAN  PADELFORD 

Professor  of  English  at  Washington  University 

"  "The  Ring  and  the  Book,'  "  says  Dr.  Padclford  in  his  introduc- 
tion, "is  Browning's  supreme  literary  achievement.  It  was  written 
after  the  poet  had  attained  complete  mastery  of  his  very  individual 
style;  it  absorbed  his  creative  activity  for  a  prolonged  period;  and  it 
issued  with  the  stamp  of  his  characteristic  genius  on  every  page." 


THE  MODERN  STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 

■    -^ — ^ — ^ — - — — — — — — ^— 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON'S 

ESSAYS 

With  an  Introduction  by 
WILLIAM  LYON  PHELPS 

Professor  of  English  at  Yale  University 

This  volume  includes  not  only  essays  in  formal  literary  criticism, 
but  also  of  personal  monologue  and  gossip,  as  well  as  philosophical 
essays  on  the  greatest  themes  that  can  occupy  the  mind  of  man.  All 
reveal  the  complex,  whimsical,  humorous,  romantic,  imaginative, 
puritanical  personality  now  known  everywhere  by  the  formula 
R.  L.  S. 

PENDENNIS 

By  Thackeray 

With  an  Introduction  by 
ROBERT  MORSS  LOVETT 

Professor  of  English  at  the  University  of  Chicago 

"Pendennis"  stands  as  a  great  representative  of  biographical 
fiction  and  reflects  more  of  the  details  of  Thackeray's  life  than  all 
his  other  writings.  Of  its  kind  there  is  probably  no  more  interesting 
book  in  our  literature. 

THE 
RETURN  OF  THE  NATIVE 

By  Thomas  Hardy 

With  an  Introduction  and  Notes  by 
JOHN  W.  CUNLIFFE 

Professor  of  English  at  Columbia  University 

"The  Return  of  the  Native"  is  probably  Thomas  Hardy's  great 
tragic  masterpiece.  It  carries  to  the  highest  perfection  the  rare 
genius  of  the  finished  writer.  It  presents  in  the  most  remarkable 
way  Hardy's  interpretation  of  nature  in  which  there  is  a  perfeo* 
unison  between  the  physical  world  and  the  human  character. 


Till:  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 

SELECTIONS  FROM 
-THE  FEDERALIST" 

Edited  with  an  Introduction  by 
JOHN  SPENCER  BASSETT 

Professor  of  History  in  Smith  College 

A  careful  and  discriminating  selection  of  the  "Essays  written  to 
favor  of  the  new  constitution,  as  agreed  upon  by  the  federal  con- 
vention, September  17,  1787." 

HISTORICAL  ESSAYS 
By  Lord  Macaulay 

Selected  with  an  Introduction  by 
CHARLES  DOWNER  HAZEX 

Professor  of  History'  at  Columbia  University 

A  group  of  the  better-known  historical  essays  which  includes  "John 
Hampden,"  "William  Pitt."  "The  Earl  of  Chatham,"  "Lord  Clive," 
"Warren  Hastings,"  "Machiavelli,"  and  "Frederick  the  Great." 

SARTOR  RESARTUS 

By  Thomas  Carlyle 

Edited  with  an  Introduction  by 
ASHLEY  THORXDIKE 

Professor  of  English  at  Columbia  University 

This  "Nonsense  on  Clothes,"  as  Carlyle  icferred  to  it  in  one  entry 
of  his  journal,  reaches  into  all  the  human  realm  and  is  perhaps  the 
greatest  philosophical  expression  of  Carlyle's  genius.  Surely  there 
is  a  power  of  pure  thought  which  he  has  put  into  the  mind  of  Pro- 
fessor Teufelsdroekh  and  a  charm  of  words  which  he  has  given  him 
to  speak  which  he  has  nowhere  surpassed. 

A  glossary  in  this  edition  will  be  of  invaluable  service  to  tho 
student. 


THE  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 

EVAN  HARRINGTON 
By  George  Meredith 

With  an  Introduction  by 
GEORGE  G.  REYNOLDS 

Professor  of  English  Literature,  University  of  Colorado 

Evan  Harrington,  one  of  the  greatest  demonstrations  of  George 
Meredith's  genius,  is  an  ironic  comment  on  English  society  and  man- 
ners in  the  latter  part  of  the  last  century,  done  with  amazing  pene- 
tration and  the  best  of  his  humor.  In  the  large,  it  reflects  the  strug- 
gle between  spiritual  and  moral  ideals  which  was  constantly  going  on 
in  Meredith's  mind  and  which  ends  in  the  triumph  of  the  spirit  of 
sacrifice. 

THE  MASTER  OF  BALLANTRAE 

By  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

With  an  Introduction  by 
H.  S.  CANBY 

Formerly  Professor  of  English  Literature  at  Yale  University,  and 
present  editor  of  the  New  York  Evening  Pod  Literary  Review 

Here  is  one  of  the  most  absorbing  of  Stevenson's  romances,  full  of 
the  spice  of  adventure  and  exciting  incident,  the  thrill  of  danger  and 
the  chill  of  fear;  it  is,  beside,  a  powerful  and  subtle  study  of  Scoteh 
character  of  different  types,  and  brings  into  being  one  of  the  most 
amazing  of  all  the  dramatis  personse  of  romantic  fiction. 

POEMS  AND  PLAYS 
By  Robert  Browning 

Selected  with  an  Introduction  and  Notes  by 
HEWETTE  ELWELL  JOYCE 

Assistant  Professor  of  English  in  Dartmouth  College 

A  volume  intended  for  the  student  or  less-advanced  reader  of 
Browning  who  does  not  require  a  complete  edition.  The  introduction 
suggests  an  approach  to  Browning,  points  out  such  difficulties  as  often 
perplex  one  who  reads  Browning  for  the  first  time,  and  states  simply 
a  few  of  the  poet's  fundamental  ideas. 


THE  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 

THE  OREGON  TRAIL 

By  Francis  Parkman 

With  an  Introduction  by 
JAMES  CLOYD  BOWMAN 

Professor  of  English,  Northern  State  Normal  College,  Marquette,  Michigan 

Parkman's  account  of  life  among  the  pioneers  and  the  Indians 
paints  a  vivid  picture  of  conditions  which  have  vanished  forever. 
Here  is  history  told  in  a  style  as  fascinating  and  compelling  as  that 
of  Cooper  at  his  best.  As  Parkman  writes  in  his  preface  to  the  edi- 
tion of  1892,  "the  Wild  West  is  tamed,  and  its  savage  charms  have 
withered.  If  this  book  can  help  to  keep  their  memory  alive,  it  will 
have  done  its  part." 


ESSAYS  BY  WILLIAM  HAZLITT 

Selected,  with  an  Introduction,  by 
PERCY  VAN  DYKE  SHELLY 

Assistant  Professor  of  English,  University  of  Pennsylvania 

A  selection  of  the  best  of  Hazlitt,  showing  the  perfection  of  style 
and  the  versatility  of  interest  of  this  master  of  the  personal  essay. 
The  selections  here  brought  together  from  the  twelve  bulky  volumes 
of  his  collected  works  are  designed  to  illustrate  his  art  in  the  fields 
in  which  he  unquestionably  excelled.  He  is  a  literary  critic  of  the 
first  rank,  to  be  named  with  Dryden,  Coleridge,  and  Arnold.  As  a 
familiar  writer  he  stands  alone  with  Montaigne  and  Lamb.  His 
criticisms  of  the  stage  and  of  the  art  of  painting  are  among  the  best 
in  the  language.  He  could  truthfully  say:  "I  have  endeavored  to 
feel  what  is  good  and  to  give  a  reason  for  the  faith  that  was  in  me, 
when  necessary  and  when  in  my  power." 


THE  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF 
DAVID  CROCKETT 

With  an  Introduction  by 
HAMLIN  GARLAND 

The  most  characteristic  figure  of  the  New  World  for  the  first  two 
centuries  was  the  man  of  the  "trace"  or  trail:  the  settler  who, 
carrying  a  rifle  and  an  axe,  adventured  into  the  wilderness  and 
there  hewed  out  a  clearing,  built  a  cabin,  and  planted  corn;  whose 
skill  with  the  flint-lock  provided  meat  for  his  family,  skins  for  his 
clothing,  and  literally  kept  the  wolf  from  the  door.  In  Crockett's 
autobiography  the  reader  will  find  the  picture  of  such  a  man,  a 
blunt,  bold,  prosaic  account  of  a  life,  epic  in  its  sweep,  in  a  crude 
sort  the  direct  progenitor  of  Lincoln  and  Mark  Twain. 

Included  in  this  volume  are:  "A  Narrative  of  the  Life  of  David 
Crockett,  of  the  State  of  Tennessee,"  "An  Account  of  Colonel 
Crockett's  Tour  to  the  North  and  Down  East,"  and  "Colonel 
Crockett's  Exploits  and  Adventures  in  Texas." 


AMERICAN  PROSE  MASTERS 
By  W.  C.  Brownell 

With  an  Introduction  by 
STUART  P.  SHERMAN 


A  book  of  vital  and  useful  criticism,  to  produce  which  "  it  is  neces- 
sary" (to  use  Mr.  Brownell's  own  words)  "to  think,  think,  think, 
and  then,  when  tired  of  thinking,  to  think  more."  Here  one  finds  a 
critical  estimate  which  leads  him  to  a  true  appreciation  of  the  work 
of  Cooper,  Hawthorne,  Emerson,  Poe,  Lowell,  and  Henry  James. 

In  his  introduction,  Mr.  Sherman  points  out  that  "though  the 
table  of  contents  indicates  that  this  book  contains  but  six  Amer- 
ican prose  masters,  the  reflective  reader  soon  perceives  that  it  con- 
tains a  seventh,  to  whom  the  rest  are  indebted  for  no  small  part  of 
the  interest  which  they  seem  to  possess  in  their  own  right." 


THE  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 

BARCHESTER  TOWERS 

By  Anthony  Tkollope 

With  an  Introduction  by 
CLARENCE  DIMICK  STEVENS 

Professor  of  English  at  the  University  of  Cincinnati 

Trollope  covered  a  wide  range  of  subjects  in  the  more  than  thirty 
novels  that  he  wrote,  but  he  was  at  his  best  in  portraying  provincial 
life  among  the  clergy  and  the  gentry  in  a  cathedral  city.  "  Barchester 
Towers"  (1857),  the  most  widely  read  of  his  books,  is  a  classic  for 
its  unfailing  humor,  its  distinctly  drawn  characters,  and  its  unerr- 
ing accuracy  in  picturing  situations  that  are  true  to  life. 

POEMS  BY 
WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Selected  and  edited,  with  an  Introduction,  by 
GEORGE  McLEAN  HARPER 

Professor  of  English  at  Princeton  University 

Even  so  sincere  a  friend  of  Wordsworth  as  Matthew  Arnold  be- 
lieved that  it  was  essential  for  the  fame  of  the  poet  that  a  selection 
be  made  of  the  poems,  and  he  made  one.  There  is  no  person  better 
suited  to  prepare  a  selection,  after  his  long  study  and  valuable  dis- 
coveries, than  Professor  Harper. 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

PUBLISHERS  NEW   YORK 


I  NIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA   LIBRARY 
Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  Dl'E  on  the  last  <latr  stamped  below. 


TP.ifii33vl 


PSD  2343     9/77 


3  1158  00610 


9234 


PR 

5006 
065 
1917 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY 


FACILITY 


AA    000  370  571 


